Gears in Therapy
by Kade Riggs
Summary: "If Satan's door stood between humanity and extinction, Delta was the only squad with big enough boots to kick it down, and everyone knew it." The war's over and Delta's been pushed into the working world, where the fight for civilization has just begun.
1. Chapter 1

Dom Santiago sat on one end of Chelsea Ferria's couch, staring at the clock with his head propped up on his fist. Bored. So bored.

"Dom," Ms. Ferria said, her voice carefully neutral. "We have forty minutes left. Why don't you tell me about work?"

_Forty more minutes—whoopdi-do, _Dom's expression clearly read.

Chelsea Ferria had seen that same expression on half a dozen other men just in the past two days. She knew getting frustrated wouldn't help, but sometimes she wanted to scream "Just say something!" at them. It wasn't her fault the war with the Locusts happened, and it damn well wasn't her fault it ended three years ago. She'd been fast-tracked into a medical triage program and about to ship out to a mobile COG hospital when the war finally ended. From there she'd skipped through several medical units before receiving her discharge and finally landing a job three weeks ago as a psychiatric consultant for Bender Fields Incorporated, a newly formed demolition company specializing in tearing down and cleaning up buildings made uninhabitable during the war.

The vast majority of Bender Fields' workers were former Gears, like Dom, and they all struggled with making the jump to civilian life. Many of them left the COG involuntarily, pushed out by injuries or because they were 'too old.' COG had a limited budget these days—and once a soldier hit the magic number 30, they were often forced out. Most of these guys had lost their families in the war, they suffered from post-traumatic stress, and none of them wanted her help.

But tri-weekly psych exams were mandatory, and Bender Fields wanted Chelsea's stamp of approval on all employees every single month. They hired her after a number of increasingly disturbing incidents climaxed with one man coming to work and emptying a pistol clip into his demo team before eating a bullet himself.

These men were all dangerous and, even with the war over, under a great deal of stress.

"How are things going with your team, Dom?"

Uninterested in her questions, Dom rubbed his nose with his knuckles. He snorted long and hard, like he needed a Kleenex but couldn't stomach being polite enough to use one.

It had taken only three weeks to wear Chelsea's patience thin. She knew it was important to remain calm and professional, but she was young—still in her early twenties—and far under-trained for a shrink, especially a therapist expected to deal with men half again her age with their brains shell-shocked into a pile of goo.

Hell, 'Dom Santiago' had probably lost more knowledge about dismembering Locusts to closed-head blast injuries than she would ever know about psych therapy. A real kick in the pants that was. They were both here for the same reason; because they needed jobs, and they didn't know how to get by any other way.

Chelsea tossed her notebook on the floor and took a minute to crack her neck to each side.

"Damn, I'm starving," she said. It was the least professional thing she'd said in front of a 'client' and she wasn't too surprised when it garnered some interest. Dom actually seemed to perk up a little.

_Food? What, where?_ his expression said for a minute, and then the monotone face slammed back down. Oh no, she wouldn't maneuver past his defenses via his stomach. No, ma'am. Not in this man's army.

Chelsea got up and headed for the rack to get her coat. "There's an awesome cheese steak vendor on the corner. It's really good as long as you don't think too hard about where he probably got the steak—or the cheese," Chelsea smiled, throwing on her coat. "Come if you want, or feel free to stay."

For a moment she thought he wouldn't follow her. She got out the door and all the way down the hall before her office door opened, and he appeared—head down as he trudged after her. She paused at the stairwell, waiting for him to catch up.

"Aren't you going to be cold?" she asked, eying his outfit: the same work-boots and cargo pants worn by most of the workers and a grease-stained white t-shirt, tattered around the collar. It had to be only forty degrees outside.

"Nope," Dom said, sliding past her and starting down the stairs. He easily hopped down the last three stairs to the landing, just like a kid. The vast majority of COG veterans weren't so spry. Chelsea knew that first hand from moonlighting at a free clinic. There was a waiting list numbering in the thousands for reconstructive surgeries, prosthetic limbs and physical therapy.

_Delta must've had angels watching over them,_ she thought, following him down to the building exit.

Bender Fields' main office building was a bleak gray structure, more utilitarian than anything. The front door opened out into downtown, and it was surrounded by the first cluster of buildings that had been restored to fully functional capacity. It was lunch time, and office workers, construction crews and less savory characters alike swarmed the area, spending their hard-earned coin—or begging for it.

Dom walked next to her, always keeping his bulky frame between her and the street, both hands crammed into his pockets. He stood between her and most of the people they passed. He never split away—sometimes forcing other pedestrians to change course to avoid walking into him—nor did he encroach on her personal space. He remained simply there beside her, a silent but formidable force.

Three years after the defeat of the Locust horde it was still easy to spot a front-line Gear a mile away. They were the only ones left with serious meat on their bones. The rest of Sera had gone under severe food rationing for nearly two decades while the Gears on the front line were put on full feed. Dom was fit and trim, but he had broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and trunk-like arms and legs. He was tall, but not tall enough to justify the degree to which he resembled a giant. Out in public he got plenty of stares and was afforded a wide berth. She could only imagine how imposing he'd been in COG armor.

She also wondered if he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets because they itched to hold the Lancer he no longer carried everywhere.

Chelsea also got a few curious looks. A hurried business woman with short steely-silver hair appraised Dom on her way by, and then shot Chelsea an approving glance with one eyebrow raised. As if to say, _If I were younger, I'd be jealous. Nice catch, girl._

Most of the other bystanders who noticed her were lanky young men. They'd glance at her and then scowl at Dom, though he seemed oblivious to their accusatory stares.

_First you take our food, and now our women. When're you asshole Gears going to stop?_

Single females were in extremely short supply these days. Women her age typically already had a husband and kids—lots of kids, if the government had anything to say about it. Young women could essentially choose the man they wanted, and Gears were a popular choice. Former front-line Gears unhindered by injury were rare but highly sought prizes because they were strong, battle tested and wouldn't be sent out on missions or patrols. More and more frequently Chelsea heard stories from tearful girls about how they'd gotten involved with a much older man, only to find they couldn't deal with his war-torn psyche.

Dom didn't say anything during the short walk, but Chelsea still learned a great deal just observing his behavior. Dom Santiago was a gentleman. He might not like talking to her, or even seeing her, but she was a young lady in his care nonetheless. He ignored the clear signs of loathing received from some pedestrians. These were good signs. Sensibilities were often a good indicator of retained sanity.

Inside Bender Fields' he'd sulked with his head down in her presence, but outside he kept his head up. She had a feeling those dark eyes of his didn't miss much, even in a crowd. _Especially _in a crowd. Dom might be a gentleman, but he'd always be a soldier first. She must never forget that about any of them.

Maybe he resisted speaking to her because he thought she secretly harbored those same feelings of loathing he saw on a daily basis. Even with the nightmare of the war still fresh, there was an undeniable sense of tension between civilians and the armed forces. Rationing had eased, but remained in effect. After twenty years of shitting themselves in fear, everyone wanted control over their own destiny without the COG standing in the way with all their rules.

In the position she currently held, it would be all too easy for Chelsea to patronize and humiliate them, and perhaps even use anything said to her in confidence to take shots at COG Command.

"Thank you," Chelsea said abruptly.

Dom's head swiveled around to look at her, the question in his eyes clear. _Thanks for what?_

"For kicking ass." At first she wondered if he'd understand what she meant. She could think of no better way to put into words how she felt about frontliners that wouldn't sound cheesy or fake. Then she saw the look in his eyes change, and she closed her mouth, realizing nothing more needed to be said.

He got it.


	2. Chapter 2

They sat across from each other on one of the run-down plastic tables set out in front of the vendor's cart. Chelsea watched Dom pack away three large cheese steak sandwiches in awe. She'd taken it upon herself to pay for two sandwiches from Larry, the vendor. Dom had wolfed his down in seconds and then gone back to buy himself two more.

She found his appetite entertaining. It reminded her of the brothers she'd once had, before the war took them.

"They must not feed you at home," she noted.

Dom shrugged, eating the melted cheese off the foil wrapper. "We always had to eat fast during the war. Besides, three former Gears livin' in the same place and none of us cook, you know?"

A full sentence. Chelsea tried hard not to die of a heart attack.

"Your roommates work for Bender too?" she asked. It was a safe bet they did. There were very few lines of honest work these days--and most of them were in demolition or construction.

Dom balked at answering. On the one hand she'd bought him lunch, on the other--well, these guys didn't like talking about themselves; talking about buddies was forbidden.

Chelsea winked at him. "Don't worry, we're off record. I just want to be prepared in case I have appointments showing up expecting food."

That pulled a stunted laugh out of him. "Yeah," he said. "I can't make any promises about Cole, but Marcus--he won't bother you."

Cole and Marcus--two more members of the famous Delta squad. Interesting that the three of them had stuck together after the war. Then again, that wasn't so uncommon these days. Often war buddies were the only family these guys had left, and with the extreme housing shortage it wasn't uncommon for them to share rent on small apartments.

"Can I ask you a question?" Dom said. He waited, but Chelsea didn't protest. "Do you like what you do?"

"Trying to weasel out of distinguished war vets anything at all that might suggest they're about to go crazy and splatter their brains on company time?" Chelsea deadpanned. "It wasn't my first choice of careers. In fact, if I had to describe my job in two words: 'fucking ridiculous' comes to mind pretty quick."

Dom snorted a laugh. He seemed to approve of her cursing. "That sounds like the Gears. Rays of sunshine, one and all." He balled up the wrapper then took a sip from his drink. "It's bad enough we've all lost our families and have no one left to kill for it. On top of that, we're living in a complete sausage fest. Then, on top of all that, they expect us to talk about it with you: a pretty, intelligent young woman."

"So you're saying..."

"The guys on your couch are mostly unfortunate, sexually frustrated bastards."

Chelsea shifted in her chair, thoughtful. It hadn't occurred to her that some of her 'patients' might find her attractive. She'd never thought of herself as particularly good looking.

"You think I'm pretty?" she asked. There was some vanity involved in the question, but also a small amount of probing. She couldn't help it. After three weeks of straight nothing, it was nice to get a little perspective.

Dom froze in his chair, looking at her from under thick black eyebrows. "Uh," he hedged. "Well, I do actually think you're pretty--but you should know when I say that, it's different..." He rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck. "Before E-day, I had a daughter. You're a little older than she would've been now, but girls your age--they remind me of her, of my Sylvie. She was three when she died."

Schooling her expression so she wouldn't gape in shock, Chelsea did a double take, studying him. How old was Dom Santiago? She would guess he had ten years on her, but not much more than that.

He must've read her face, because he heaved a sigh. "I got married at sixteen," he explained. "Had a wife and two kids and made commando all before I turned eighteen."

_And then he lost them all,_ Chelsea thought, aghast. It still boggled her mind, the trauma these guys had survived off the battlefield.

Nervously lacing his fingers together on the tabletop, Dom seemed to take in everything around him but her. "I suppose you're gonna want me to talk about that."

Technically that was her job, right? Get these guys to talk about their pain? Then again, her gut said Dom generally had his pain squared away. Talking about losing his wife and children would strike nails through his soul, but it wouldn't reveal anything pertinent. No matter what anyone said, these guys were never going to get better or be normal. The important thing was to make sure they weren't a danger to themselves or others. The rest they were just going to have to live with.

"Do you think you're going to come to work and off a bunch of people?" Chelsea asked.

"At work, no," he said. Then he raised one eyebrow high in contemplation. "Although if Cole leaves the dishes piled in the sink one more time, my kitchen might turn into a blood-bath tonight."

The facade of humor and bravado was a common coping mechanism. Instead of calling him on it, Chelsea smiled. "I have no idea what I'm doing," she admitted. She had misgivings about confiding this in him. Perhaps she was cutting her own legs from beneath her, or maybe he needed to hear she wasn't stupid enough to think she could fix him. "But I think pretty much everyone on Sera is hurting. Personally, I don't want to subject any poor sap to tallying up everything he's lost. I am here for a reason, though. I'm supposed to try to find guys who are having a hard time keeping it battened down. That's my mission," she concluded.

"Problem is," Dom said, "you're going to have to treat us all like you don't trust us. Like you're the adult and we're kids holding lit firecrackers."

"I assume that's been frustrating," was Chelsea's carefully worded response. She couldn't try to identify with his feelings. She couldn't. Period. She was a girl his daughter's age. She should be looking to him for answers--and expecting him to accept a reversal of the parent-child roles would only push him away.

"Yeah, you could say that. In the COG we didn't have time to worry about losing our minds. We just worried about tossing 'nades in the next grub hole..."

"I know, and I do trust you," Chelsea interrupted.

Dom paused, reversed, and did a double-take on her declaration. "You do?"

"I must. If I thought you were nuts I doubt I would've left the building with you," she said, shrugging both shoulders. "I'm practicing this witch-doctor brand of science, trying to pin-the-tail-on-the-psycho. Until I figure out what I'm doing, I'm going to have to go on gut instinct most of the time, right?"

Dom blinked his agreement.

"Well, I think you're smart and reasonable. Your priorities seem sound. You present logical chains of thought." Chelsea rattled off half a dozen facts to support her opinion, only stopping when Dom started to laugh.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing. I was sitting here wondering why you didn't have a man, and now I think I know. Highly educated and too sensible for your age. Lots of guys find that an intimidating quality in a woman."

Seeing her puzzled expression, Dom held up his left hand, wiggling his ring finger. Chelsea glanced down at her own hands. Indeed, there was no ring there. As a rule, for most women 'spoken for' meant 'married' since the war had ended.

"I'll bet your mom or dad was an officer--not just commissioned, but academy grade."

Chelsea nodded, a little dumbfounded. She'd been right. Those dark eyes of his didn't miss much. She just hadn't expected them to see through her. "My mom was a COG engineer," she said, rediscovering her voice. "Dad was a Major--infantry."

"Pretty interesting duality you've got going there: all posh and proper one minute and cursing like a grunt the next. Fooled me for a while, because the posh and proper far outweighs the grunt."

That's because her dad died when she was a little girl, and her brothers followed after him one at a time over the next ten years. Mom was the only one left, and she'd grown old long before her time. When the Alzheimer's got bad enough, Chelsea was forced to turn her over to Veteran Assisted Living. Much of the time it was all she could do to pay the required portion of her mother's health care and keep her own tiny one-room living space.

Sera was a hard place for a girl to make it on her own. Especially with the breeding laws in place.


	3. Chapter 3

After four more frustrating sessions in the afternoon, Chelsea made her way home that evening with a light step. She'd had an actual productive conversation that day and she relished the rare triumph. From here on out, she could just talk to Dom Santiago like a co-worker, instead of trying to pry open his head with a jackhammer. She had a feeling if she wasn't careful he'd take her under his wing. Chelsea didn't tell him about her father's death, but he'd probably guessed as much.

Dom was a loyal guy. She knew that just from reading his service record. Once he decided someone was all right, he felt responsible for that person forever after.

Chelsea entered the rickety old four story building where she lived just as darkness began to settle over the city. The building was once a factory that dealt in polymers, with the production floor at ground level and offices above, but after the war a particularly industrious group used plywood to section off rows of squares just big enough for a cot and a secured locker. The rooms were cold, drafty, provided the bare minimum of privacy, and cost an arm and a leg. Chelsea had to share a bathroom with about twenty other people--both men and women--and before she could leave her room every morning, she had to stuff everything not bolted down into the heavy steel locker by her cot. Not even her pillow and blankets were safe from thieves.

Chelsea had a pistol that had belonged to her father. She slept with it holstered at her hip at night.

It had saved her more than once from being brutalized by drunks roaming after the bars closed down.

There used to be a lock on the 'door' of her room, but it had been splintered by the first genius who thought it'd be a good idea to kick her door in. She'd been using a piece of rusted scrap metal to wedge the door shut, but as she approached Chelsea could see a new door been hung while she was at work. There was a note stuck in the crack.

Grabbing the note, she scanned it, the pit of her stomach dropping out.  
_  
Blah, blah, tenet complaints about the level of noise after hours, blah, blah, evicted immediately.  
_  
Bullshit. She never made any noise. Yeah, she'd dropped a guy who broke into her room, but that was six months ago. She had to sleep through thumping music, babies wailing, and people screaming at each other every single night. Someone died in or around the building at least once every three months. She'd been a model tenet by comparison.

_Fuck this!_ Chelsea hauled off and booted the door in. With a sharp _crack_ it swung open as easy as a whore's legs. Spinning in the locker code, she opened it, only to find her things gone. Everything--pistol, blankets, even her clothes.

"Fuck!" she screamed, punching the side of the metal locker, denting the thin steel.

* * *

The landlord gave her the same song and dance at his office; a back room in a bar down the street. Chelsea didn't even want to know what kind of business he ran out of that back room. She had a good feeling he'd ousted her because someone had come along willing to pay more rent and hand over a heavy 'deposit' on the room. It was a random event. Nothing personal, just a casual business-like 'screw you the fuck over.'

He wouldn't even give her personal belongings back, claiming he'd given them to a neighbor to give back to her--a neighbor who's name he didn't even remember. Someone who claimed to be a friend of hers.

Not friggin' likely.

Several hours later, Chelsea sat on a park bench, wrapped up tight in her long winter coat. It was dark, she'd long since lost feeling in her fingers, and ironically enough if she'd still had her father's pistol, she probably would've gone back into the landlord's office and blown him the fuck away. It was ironic, because she was supposed to be the sane one. She was supposed to be able to keep her head.

Then again, if she still had the pistol she probably wouldn't be so angry. Losing the last item her father owned hurt the most. It was her security blanket. The very symbol of her freedom and independence. She doubted she'd sleep much without its comforting weight at he side.

_What now?_ the obnoxiously rational part of her brain kept asking. _The bank's closed so you can't get a new room until at least tomorrow, and you'll freeze out here._

Where the hell did all the city's homeless go? She saw them panhandling everywhere during the day, but at night they all disappeared.

_Maybe there's a shelter._

Or maybe they weren't really homeless.

Eventually Chelsea walked back to Bender Fields, knocking on the locked front door until the night guard came out and opened it.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked, looking her over.

Chelsea related her circumstances to him in a defeated monotone.

With a pained look on his face, the guard listened. "Ma'am, I'd love to help you, but they made it pretty clear. If I let anyone in here at night, they'll fire me. I got a wife and kids. I can't lose my job."

"But I work here. I'll just stay in my office, just one night. No one will ever know!" she pleaded.

The guard huffed a sigh. "Tha's what they're afraid of. First they'll get one employee living here, and soon everyone will think they should be able to. This housing game ain't pretty, I know."

A loud, insistent voice came from inside. "Where the hell are ya, Fred? I've only got two fucking hands! I need to test the hydraulics on this drill and I can't do it by myself, no matter what these idiots think..." A blond man with oil-splattered goggles pushed up on his forehead appeared next to the security guard. "Who's this?" he asked, all business.

The guard sighed, his eyes rolling upward. This blond man seemed to actually try his patience more than she did. "She works here, Baird. She lost her place after work."

"Doesn't seem like that's our problem," Baird said. "This drill working by morning, that _is_ a problem. Lady, I'm not going to lie to you. Fred here is a terrible assistant. It's always '_But, Baird, I have to patrol the building!' _and _'But, Baird, I should really be watching the security cameras!'_ He's a whiner and he's got no machine intuition. You got any experience with machines?"

Chelsea shrugged. "My mom was a COG engineer," she said. "We kept a vehicle running during most of the war."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" Baird said, grabbing her arm and pulling her inside. "Come on, sweetheart, we got work to do."


	4. Chapter 4

At least Bender Fields provided free coffee to workers. Chelsea had needed it that morning after spending an hour in the bathroom cleaning hydraulic fluid out of her hair and spot treating it from her clothing with a damp paper towel. She'd stayed up half the night with Damon Baird, working on replacing old hydraulic hoses on the industrial drills before he told her to go get some sleep. The way he was going, she had a feeling he'd worked until dawn. It turned out Damon Baird _was_ the graveyard engineering team, and she had a feeling Bender Fields saved a fortune by hiring him. For the most part he seemed to prefer it that way; doing solitary work--just him and the machines. When he occasionally ran into jobs requiring two people, it seemed to irritate him. Just in one night she'd found out he could fix about anything. It almost made up for the fact that he never quit whining.

Her first appointment of the day was with Augustus Cole. Cole was on the same demo team as Dom Santiago and Marcus Fenix, so usually she would've seen him the previous day. Under normal circumstances an entire four man team came in for morning appointments or afternoon appointments. It was essentially a half-day of paid vacation for the entire team. One guy would be in session, and the others could do whatever the hell they wanted. Cole must've gotten conscripted onto another team for a day, because his scheduled session had gotten flipped with another guy.

Chelsea's first visit with Cole had been far more pleasant than any of her other meetings. Cole was a showman. He liked to entertain people, and he enjoyed pulling smiles out of her. They'd talked about his Thrashball career and Cole's opinions about the COG and working at Bender Fields.

"Ain't bad working here, baby," he'd said. "But if they get Thrashball together someday, I'm gonna be all over it."

Mentally, he seemed the healthiest in the company. Seeing him should've been the bright spot in her day, but she was too exhausted to enjoy it.

"Hey, Shrink-lady," Cole greeted, cheerful even at an early hour. He took a seat on her couch. "I hear you're taking retired Gears out to lunch these days."

Chelsea smiled, feeling a little of her gloomy fog lift. "I tell ya, Cole," she said. "I'm gonna have to talk to that Dom Santiago about eating lunch and telling."

"Na, you did good, Shrink-lady. Got Santiago all up in your honor now. Marcus made some crack about going to the shrink, and Dom came back with 'she ain't all bad.' That's gotta be progress."

Chelsea chuckled. "Behold the power of a free sandwich."

Cole reclined in his seat, letting one ankle rest on top of the opposite knee. "Yeah, you better watch yourself now. Dom's had to settle for playin' mother hen to a bunch of grown men for a long time--especially his boy Marcus. If you're not careful, he might turn them overdeveloped paternal instincts on you. Before you know it, you'll be washing dishes after every meal and getting tongue lashings for stayin' out all night," he chuckled.

Chelsea forced a laugh, but she couldn't help thinking about her own father. She remembered feeling an unshakable sense of security in his arms. He'd died when she was young and the memories were faded. Dom didn't strike her as the mothering type, but who knew? Even with patchy record keeping, his service file showed time and again Dom dove in head-first to save other people.

Cole studied her closely. "Lookin' a little under the weather there, Shrink-lady," Cole observed. Damn these Gears and their constant vigilance. They didn't miss much, that was for sure...

Chelsea shrugged it off. "Just a little tired," she said. "So how's the Thrashball hunt going? I hear they're thinking about putting together an exhibition game."

The big grin returned to Cole's face. "Saw that, did ya? I've gotten a couple calls about it. It's nothin' official, but it's a damn good start."

It was so easy to be happy for Cole. Before E-Day he'd had everything, and he lost it with grace. On a Thrashball field or on Delta squad he was a constant boon for his teammates. For everyone around him. He gave off this tremendous feeling of protection and caring.

Chelsea had never met anyone quite like him.

"What about you, Shrink-lady? I might get Thrashball back in my life, what do you got planned?"

No one had ever asked her that. Surviving in this world felt like treading water in a hurricane. "I'd like to see my mom taken care of," Chelsea said, her exhaustion fueling a bout of honesty. "I've got her up at the COG VA Institution. Before the war ended she started getting forgetful, and now she doesn't even remember my dad and brothers are gone most days."

"They aren't making you pay for her care, are they?"

Chelsea shrugged. "Some of it."

Cole shook his head slowly in disappointment. "That ain't right, baby."

"I've got this job. It pays well enough," Chelsea said, trying to lighten the conversation. "I'm just glad I still have my mom at all."

"Yeah, but what about you? If you could have one thing just for you, what'd it be?"

_My dad's pistol and my landlord strung up in a tree._ "I think I'd like a pony," Chelsea said after a long moment of thought.

Cole burst out laughing. The sound of it probably carried all the way through the building.

* * *

Dom and Marcus gazed up at an old two story bank that had partially collapsed against the parking ramp next to it. It was the next project for their crew and five others, and what a mess it was going to be.

"Maybe if we set the charges on the north corner first..." Dom suggested.

"All that shit's coming down, Dom. There's no good way to contain it. If Richtner likes it or not, we're going to have to shut down the street through cleanup." There was a reason Marcus ran the crew, and usually the entire site. He had the mind for physics and static forces. He could usually tell within five feet where a building would drop. The rest of them didn't have the level of spacial awareness needed to foresee how a carefully placed charge could impact a buckling building.

Dom scuffed his boot on the pavement. "He ain't gonna like that."

"He can kiss my ass. The only way we drop this thing straight down is by sending someone into the center of the building to plant charges on those center support struts, and a pin drop could bring that upper floor raining down into the basement."

"It was a lot easier to level buildings when we only had to make sure they landed on grubs and not _us_."

Marcus grunted an affirmative, those cold eyes studying the building closely. Dom could almost see his brain breaking down the complex calculations and making adjustments based on experience and gut instinct. No one ever pegged Marcus as an intellectual. With those mad-dog eyes, Thrashball build, and the scars on his face he looked like the sort of guy who should carry around a big club and let his knuckles drag on the ground.

He wasn't exactly a gentle giant, but Marcus had a mind even sharper than his clubbing skills, which were pretty sharp.

_Wonder what he could've done if he'd gone on with his education instead of enlisting._

Dom shook his head. That was a silly question. If Marcus had sat down in a college classroom with an egotistical professor front and center, nothing good would've come of it. At some point he probably would've gotten up, decked the prof, and walked out. Besides, if Marcus Fenix had become a scientist instead of a soldier, the human race might not be around anymore.

He might've made a decent instructor though, if he were more talkative.

"What?" Marcus said when he caught Dom looking at him.

"I'm trying to imagine you wearing nerdy glasses and a white lab coat."

"Do I look good?"

"Smokin' hot. You're beatin' the chicks off with your pocket protector, man."

"What chicks?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're a doctor at a nursing home. You know, I hear good things about dating older women."

"You would," Marcus grumbled, shoving his hands deep in his cargo pockets and leaning back against a company pick-up truck loaded with gear and a locked steel case labeled with a big 'Danger Explosives' sticker. This was life free of grubs and war. Sometimes it sucked. Rules, crazy supervisors, and way too much free time. Sure they got to play with explosives all day, but afterward they had to actually stick around and clean up the mess.

Another truck pulled up to their work site, and Cole hopped out of the back, fresh from his psych appointment. He smacked the side of the truck in appreciation before it headed out and he started his b-line toward them.

"Whoo, she ugly," Cole said, gazing up at the bank on approach, his bag slung from a single strap across his back.

"So, I'm taking it she didn't buy you breakfast," Marcus said. "Seeing as today she's ugly."

Cole slugged him on the shoulder. "Don't talk about my Shrink-lady like that. She promised she'd come cheer for the Cole Train if they put together that exhibition game next year."

"Cole, how do you think Marcus would look as some kind of science geek?"

"You mean without all the scars on his face and the grizzled sergeant attitude?"

"Yeah, exactly. Then try to imagine him wearing a white lab coat with a bunch of pens and a pocket protector."

"Don't forget the coke-bottle glasses," Marcus added.

Cole and Dom both stood there for a long minute staring at him until Marcus finally heaved a sigh and walked away.

"You know, I could see it," Cole said.

"Really?" Dom asked, surprised.

"I'm kinda getting an image of him in surgery with blood all over the lab coat and the same do-rag and a mask, takin' a saw to somebody's limb."

Dom tilted his head. "I just can't... Oh wait, I got it. Really? Marcus as a doctor?"

Cole chuckled. "Wouldn't have the best bedside manner, if you know what I mean."

The two of them jogged to catch up with their fearless leader.


	5. Chapter 5

"Shit, Richtner, I heard you the first time," Marcus growled into the phone. "I'm telling you, there's no safe access to the main support structure. We need to get a bigger blast area approved and clearance to shut the street down... Yeah, I could send a guy in, but you'll be paying for his funeral. Do you have any idea how long it takes to train someone for this job?" He stood there with the phone to his ear, listening for a while. "Well if you really feel that way," he was using that uniquely Marcus tone: falsely sympathetic with a large side of patronizing, "then _I'll_ do it. I'll go in and place the damn charges and after I'm dead you can think about how you're going to replace me... All right, you go and do that."

Marcus tossed the receiver back through the window of the truck, letting it fall haphazardly on the bench seat instead of leaning in and placing it back in the cradle.

"So, what's up?" Dom asked.

Marcus jerked his head toward the phone in the truck. "He's gonna go talk to his supervisor."

"That's progress, right?"

"If his supervisor had any sense, it would be. We're working with fucking amateurs here, Dom. Richtner is basically the owner's kid, and anyone else trained for this job is out working on a crew."

Once again the two of them walked over to stand in front of the building. There was a hole in the wall large enough to allow a decent line of sight inside. At least half the second floor had come down already. If someone went in they'd have a lot of tight squeezes and at least some rubble moving to do.

Dom cursed under his breath. "Shit, you can't go in there," he said. "It would be stupid."

"We've done dumber things."

"War's over, man. Besides, if you died we'd need a new roommate, and I ain't living with Baird again." There was some super-secret tough-man code in those words meant to convey that Dom would get pretty messed up if Marcus went and died. They'd known each other since childhood. Theirs was a brotherhood forged by service and shared loss instead of through something as trivial as blood. Marcus was the only person left in the world who'd known Dom through the biggest events of his life, the last of his family. Family meant everything to the Santiagos, and Dom suspected Marcus knew that. Maybe he couldn't admit it, but Dom suspected Marcus would get pretty messed up if anything happened to him.

_He'd get messed up all right, and it'd probably have more to do with what he learned at my house than the way he was raised at home._

Twenty minutes later, another truck rolled up, this one transporting Baird in the passenger seat. Marcus and Dom walked over to meet their former squad mate with some trepidation. Baird was an engineer. He got paid a shit-ton more than they did and he worked nights repairing and designing new equipment. So why was he here? Besides, the guy could be a pain to work with under normal circumstances, and he looked bleary-eyed and pissed, like someone jerked him out of bed and dragged him over to the site.

Looking up at the bank, Baird climbed out of the truck. "You guys seriously need _my_ help to bring this wreck down?" Baird grumbled, using both hands to rub at his eyes. "Can't believe they woke me up for this shit."

Marcus didn't rise to the bait. "We need to get charges on the central supports."

"Are you sure? I mean, I think if I walked up and pissed on that last intact wall over there, the whole thing might collapse."

"Go ahead. Don't forget to write your name."

"Hey, Marcus. What if Baird could fix our robot?" Dom asked. "I mean, I know it got a little dinged up..."

"Whoa," Baird said, holding up both hands to slow him down. "Are we talking about the robot you jokers flattened four months ago? That thing got sent out for scrap. There wasn't an entire inch of unbent steel on it and the chips all got fried in the blast. They're not going to buy you another one. It's like handing a laptop to a bunch of chimpanzees in heat."

Dom tried really hard to not punch Baird in the face. He knew in a pinch, Baird would always get them out. The guy's constant abruptness just flared his temper sometimes. "So--what? We're back to sending someone inside?"

Baird waved off that idea. "That's crazy. Just, hang on. I've got a plan, but I need to hitch a ride back to my place and grab some stuff. I'll be back." He walked back toward the truck. "Don't any of you lunatics blow yourselves up while I'm gone!" he shouted over his shoulder. "I'm looking at you, Santiago!"

"Love you too, Baird," Dom called back, rolling his eyes. He found Marcus looking at him. "What?" he said.

"You know, sometimes I get the feeling he'd really miss us." This was a pretty deep revelation for Marcus to voice aloud.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Baird's family, all right? Like a crazy cousin you'd miss if he weren't around anymore, even though he drives you nuts the rest of the time."

"Like your cousin--what was his name?"

"You mean Cesar?"

"Yeah, that kid."

Dom started laughing. "Marcus, you punched Cesar in the face when you were fifteen! You broke his nose!"

"Hey, he punched you first. If I hadn't done it, Carlos would've murdered him."

"How do you not remember the name of a guy after breaking his nose?"

"I've broken a few since then. So sue me."

* * *

Dom couldn't help himself. He stared at Baird's laptop screen in awe. Glancing over, he saw just the barest hint of approval on Marcus's face--brow slightly raised, eyes never leaving the monitor.

Ten feet away, Cole stood on level ground facing them, holding a King Raven model in extended hands. The laptop screen was showing video feed from six tiny cameras mounted on the model, giving them front, side, top, bottom, and rear views.

"There's us," Dom commented, pointing at the feed labeled 'front.' He waved his hand, and the Dom on the screen waved.

"Cole, hold it steady so I can calibrate it!" Baird demanded for the third time.

"The thing gets heavy after twenty minutes, Damon," Cole called back.

"Bitch, bitch, bitch. I'll bet that little psych girl could hold it better than you. She has fantastically steady hands."

Marcus and Dom both turned to give Baird a look, like they had the same thought at the same time. _How do know anything at all about her hands?_

Dom doubted Baird meant the comment in the context that immediately came to mind, but what if he did?

_Then I'll beat the snot out of him._

_She's not your daughter,_ his more sensible side reminded.

She was someone's daughter, and a girl like that deserved better.

_Oh, yeah? Like who?_

Someone more her age, the paternal part of him hedged. Dom shook his head. These thoughts weren't getting him anywhere.

"How do you know, Shrink-Lady, Baird? Didn't think you engineers had to submit to psych exams like the rest of us," Cole said.

Baird's fingers tapped keys like machine gun fire, adjusting the cameras and building a calibrated grid of distances on each camera feed. He had a distance-finding laser that he'd probably salvaged off some old Longshot; he occasionally used it to put a red dot on Cole, measuring the distance between them down to millimeters. "She lost her place last night. Came by with some sob story about her landlord tossing her out and stealing her stuff. Her mom was a COG trained engineer, and she worked with her on vehicle mechanics and weapons maintenance until she got old enough to enlist in the triage program. I had her help me out with those drills Samson's team trashed the other day. Poor kid had nowhere to sleep last night."

Instead of taking a jab at Baird needing an assistant, or his uncharacteristic bout of sympathy, Marcus's eyes jumped to Dom. _Am I that obvious?_ Dom asked himself. _Have I already adopted this girl and everyone knows it but me? All it took was one day?_

Or maybe Marcus just knew him that well. He knew Dom would want to help.

"Yahtzee!" Baird said. "We're ready for take-off, ladies. Cole, make sure you hold that thing way out. I don't want you to get cut up by the rotors."

A few more buttons were punched, and the tiny chopper's motor kicked on, spinning up the rotor blades until they went too fast to see. The tiny chopper lifted from Cole's hands, like a fledgling from the nest--if fledglings carried a block of C4 on their undersides when they took flight.

Using his screen as a guide, Baird flew the bird straight into the building, the carefully calibrated grids allowing him to avoid collisions with rubble. Marcus knew the building blueprints best, and he supervised the flight, giving verbal directions while Baird piloted, carefully cresting ridges of debri and circling around felled marble columns. It took some doing, but they finally found one of the main support beams, rusted and exposed in the center of all that mess.

Baird eased the small chopper up close to the beam. "The rotors are twelve inches, so we'll need to give at least thirteen of slack," he said, and in the video feed labeled 'below' they could see the chopper's wench lowering the block of high explosive approximately a foot beneath the belly. They couldn't see it from this angle, but Baird had stuck a small electromagnet on the bottom of the C4 block that he'd built out of a battery, a coil of wire, a receiver, and a round plastic casing. The plastic casing also held the detonator.

With impeccable precision, Baird eased the mini-KR back and forth, letting the block build up some inertia swinging at the end of the wench. "You ready with the remote, Dom?" Baird asked.

"Just tell me when," Dom replied, his thumb on the button.

Baird rocked the KR back from the beam, causing the C4 to swing toward it. "Now," he said, right before the block reached the end of its arc.

Dom pushed the button, and the powerful electromagnet flipped on, causing the block to hover toward the iron in the beam, suspended in the air but restrained by the wench.

Baird eased forward and the magnet found the beam, holding tight even when Baird gave slack on the wench. "Releasing the explosive," Baird said, and he tapped a command the caused the wench to release and retract. The magnet maintained its hold, powerful enough to not let the C4 brick slip toward the floor. This was essential. They needed that explosive to be at approximately the same height on all the beams.

Marcus smacked Baird on the back. High praise, for Marcus. "Nice work, Baird. Now bring 'er back out and we'll give her another payload to deliver."

"Yeah, only five more beams and about a million struts. It's gonna be long frickin' day," Baird bitched, but Dom could see he was secretly very pleased with himself.

_He should be. That toy of his could change the landscape of this business._

Dom playfully slugged Baird on the shoulder. "Good one, man," he said, then he turned to go start tasking crews for the clean up that would take place after the building came down. His thoughts briefly wandered toward Chelsea Ferria, and he wondered where she'd go on those nights when Baird couldn't dream up engineering work for her to do.

_Keep your mind on business. The rest will work itself out after the explosion._ Dom got back to work. He still caught Marcus glancing at him from time to time, but his friend shouldn't have worried. He wasn't that preoccupied.

Still, it was nice to know someone was still watching his ass this long after the war.

* * *

After her last client of the day, Chelsea slouched down in her chair, tossing her empty notebook over her shoulder. She heard a flutter of pages and then a 'splat' when it hit the floor. It was the end of a long day. Soon the janitorial crews would come through, locking the doors and checking for squatters. They wouldn't let her stay, and she doubted they could be bribed. Not with what she had.

_Should've kept a survival kit at work. _She definitely should've been more prepared for this event. It wasn't exactly a rare occurrence.

Someone knocked softly on her door. Chelsea was tempted to remain silent. She didn't feel like dealing with anyone at the moment, but she sucked in a deep breath, blew it out, and called, "It's open!"

Dom Santiago opened the door. He was covered in a fine layer of dust that seemed to turn his skin and hair a uniform dull gray. He must've been present when a building came down. Only his eyes still had that dark sharpness present in them. He looked her over for a minute.

"I talked to Damon Baird today," he said as explanation.

Chelsea shrugged. "Them's the punches. I gotta roll with them or I'm not gonna make it."

He shook his head, like he disagreed. "Come on," he said, holding the door a little wider. "You trust me, right? Well, let's go."

Chelsea heaved herself out of the chair, stomping out a cramp in her calf on the way to grab her coat from the rack. She followed him out, hitting the lights. "Where to?"

Dom smiled. "Home," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

The three former members of Delta squad lived in a real apartment complex. One of approximately three such buildings in the entire city.

"Who's wrinkled ass did you guys have to kiss to get a bid on this place?" Chelsea asked, craning her head to look up the square stairwell. There was no elevator, but at least there were landings with benches in case they wanted a break during the eight flight climb.

Dom chuckled. "A wrinkled ass named 'Hoffman.' Maybe you've heard of him?" Dom hopped up the stairs two at a time, usually waiting for her at each landing. Again Chelsea had to marvel at his just-contained energy. He worked a crew all day, and still had more than enough stamina to run up eight flights of stairs while conversing with her. Then again, after spending nearly twenty years in Gear plate armor, maybe it was natural to feel light and energetic without it.

"Hoffman? You guys know him?"

"Yeah. He personally led my commando team at Aspho," Dom said.

Chelsea hadn't been long out of diapers when Aspho happened. She had vague recollections of it, but anyone who went through boot camp heard stories about it. "Well, _he would_ have the pull to get you set up. I'm glad he did, what with the way they kicked you guys out. No pension and barely a 'thanks for your service, boys.' It really pissed a lot of people off."

Dom's eyebrows flashed upward. "Did it?" he asked, amused.

Chelsea shrugged, relieved to see they'd reached the seventh floor. Just one to go. The days when she'd done PT every morning didn't seem so long ago. She hadn't realized she'd fallen so far out of shape. "It pissed _me_ off, anyway. If Satan's door had stood between humanity and extinction, Delta was the only squad with big enough boots to kick it down, and everyone in COG knew it."

Her analogy pulled a laugh out of him. "Oh, shit," he said. "I'm gonna have to tell Marcus that one. It might actually get a grimace out of him."

"But seriously. You guys got a raw deal."

Dom shrugged. "Unlike most guys over thirty, we had a choice. There were plenty of desks to man--but we just opted for the door instead."

"You guys could've stayed on patrols, or become drill instructors."

"Once the war ended, things started changing right away--from the way civilians were treated to the way Gears were trained. Delta had a hard time making the adjustment. I mean, did it make sense for them to discharge you, Chelsea? A fully trained medical officer?"

He had her there. When Chelsea received her discharge papers, she'd been devastated. It was like getting laid off. Unlike the Gears, experienced medical personal were kept and new members like Chelsea were shown the door.

They finally made it to the eighth floor landing. There were more floors above, but Chelsea had no interest in finding out how many. She followed Dom approximately halfway down the hall to a reinforced steel door with an actual deadbolt on it.

_Cushy,_ she thought. It was actually a very bland, sterile place. The paint was chipping on the walls and the carpet was old and musty--but clean, safe, and somewhat spacious seemed like luxury these days. There was no way she could possibly afford to live here.

Ever the gentleman, Dom pushed the door open and stepped back so she could walk through before him. Chelsea barely remembered what non-barracks living quarters looked like. It was stunning to see an individual sized kitchen, even though it was crammed in right next to a small living room with hardly any separation, like the two rooms got slapped together. There was a couch, and lying on his back Augustus Cole took up the entire thing, lounging in shorts and a t-shirt with no shoes on. He had a pad of paper and was writing with a bare stub of pencil.

"Hey, Cole," Dom said, "look who I brought home from the office."

Cole put the tablet aside, sitting up and finally peering over the back of the couch. "Shrink-lady!" he said with real enthusiasm. "What'd I tell you about letting Santiago adopt you? You're in for it now, sweetheart."

Chelsea smiled. She had no idea how to react to these guys in their home. It's not like she'd had the occasion to make house calls.

"You mind if Chelsea stays until she can find another place, Cole?" Dom asked. Chelsea hadn't heard him address her by first name before. Maybe Cole was right and she had been adopted.

"You'd better clear it with the boss man first, but I don't mind. Especially if she gets you off my back, momma," Cole chuckled.

"Speaking of--Marcus in the shower?" Dom asked Cole, not riled in the least by Cole's emasculating comment. Everyone liked Cole, even people who both lived and worked with him.

"Heh, yeah. He's pissed 'cause he thinks I used all the hot water. Doesn't believe there wasn't any to start with."

"Man, are you serious? If it was gone when he got started, then it's going to be ice when I finally get in there."

Chelsea almost swooned. Running, hot water? She'd heard of such things but never experienced it. All of this was so overwhelming. "I shouldn't stay here," Chelsea said. "I mean, you guys have to be stacked into this place as it is."

"Not really. We each have a room," Dom said. "Don't worry about it. Once Marcus gets dressed we'll figure it out," he said, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. He found a seat next to Cole on a wood crate mascaraing as a chair. The crate creaked when he settled onto it, and for a second Chelsea was afraid it would collapse under him.

"Come sit down, Shrink-Lady," Cole invited, sitting up and patting the couch next to him.

Chelsea obeyed, finding herself seated at a coffee table made from a hanging closet door with four stacks of books at the corners for legs.

"Nice table," she said.

"Yeah, it's also a library," Cole said. "Take a look."

Chelsea leaned down to read a few of the book bindings. She saw a whole variety, from biology and theoretical physics to Thrashball strategy and various famous novels.

"Very nice," Chelsea said, impressed.

"You should check out the other end sometime," Dom said, taking a pack of cards from his breast pocket. "I'm pretty sure there's a psych section down there. We had to scrounge that up after Baird stole our mechanics section."

This was nice, comfortable. They played several rounds of cards, and every single time Chelsea got smoked.

"Are you guys playing me?" she asked after losing with a decently strong hand.

"No," Dom reassured her, gathering up the cards and carefully arranging them in a neat pile before he started to shuffle, careful to avoid bending the edges. "Unfortunately after you've played cards with every Gear in the COG..."

"Twice," Cole threw in. "At least twice with every single Gear, and hundreds of times with the squads we got sent out on missions with."

"...you get a disturbing mastery of the game. Soon you're subconsciously counting cards and you just know what the other guys at the table probably have."

"It's good for you, Shrink-Lady. Teaches you to bluff." Cole winked at her.

"More importantly, it helps you learn to see through a bluff," Dom said, flipping cards to them with machine-efficient flicks of his wrist.

The bathroom door swung open, and Marcus Fenix walked out with nothing but a towel wrapped tenuously around his waist. Chelsea had never seen him, in person or in pictures, without a black COG bandanna covering his head. He looked younger without it. His thick black hair was tousled from getting rubbed with a towel, and she could see it was longer than regulation. If he saw her, it didn't register on his face when he walked past them and down the hall, entering the first bedroom on the right.

When the door clicked shut, Chelsea caught Cole's eye. He was grinning at her. "You'll have to get used to that, Shrink-Lady," he said. "We kinda take modesty for granted 'round here."

Chelsea felt heat spring up in her cheeks and spread to her neck. "Was I staring?" she asked, horrified.

Cole chuckled. "Maybe a little. See anything you liked?" he teased.

"Cole," Dom warned.

"If Sarge is gonna parade his ass around half naked, let the girl admire it, Santiago."

"Marcus isn't like that. Come on, she's a kid compared to him."

"Society ain't playin' by those rules anymore. It's survival of the fittest, and Fenix is top of his game. It might do him good to see the end zone once in a while."

She got the feeling this was an old, tired conversation for these two that in reality had very little to do with her. "I was kind of shocked seeing him without the bandanna," Chelsea confessed, her eyes now entirely fixed on her cards.

The tense conversation between the two men took a long pause, and then they both burst out laughing. "God, sometimes I feel the same way," Cole admitted, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

"I just know, every time I see him without it, I give him this look like he's got two heads," Dom said, actually laughing so hard his cards fell from his fingers onto the table. "I try not to, but I can't help it!"

"Hey, Santiago, you think he still sleeps in it? Seriously?"

"I doubt it, man. That was during the war. We all slept in our gear. There's no hair on my shins anymore; wearing armored boots day and night permanently rubbed it off."

"Yeah, but we ain't wearing any of it now. And keep your leg hair stories to yourself."

It went on from there. After a few minutes Marcus reappeared from his room wearing sweat pants, a t-shirt and his standard head gear. If he'd heard any of the conversation taking jabs at his expense, he didn't show it.

"What's for dinner?" he asked, heading straight for the refrigeration unit, pulling open the freezer on top.

"Hey, Sarge, look who's eating with us tonight. It's Shrink-Lady," Cole called over his shoulder. The three of them had given up on the present hand, and Cole was gathering the cards to shuffle.

Marcus made a gruff noise at the back of his throat, still staring into the depths of the freezer.

"Don' worry, Shrink-Lady. He'll be more sociable once he gets his blood sugar up."

Dom scoffed. "Yeah, don't count on it."

Letting out a long sigh, Marcus flipped the freezer door closed and grabbed a beer from the fridge below. He popped off the cap with his bare hand even though Chelsea was pretty sure it wasn't a twist-off. He took a seat across the table from Dom on one of the wooden crates not designed to support the weight of a beefy front-line Gear. Shockingly, the crate didn't collapse under him either, even though he was bigger than Dom. After taking a long pull of amber liquid, he set the bottle down and leaned one elbow on the tabletop, those cold eyes staring straight at Dom

Dom didn't seem to notice, carefully looking at his cards and nowhere else.

Cole leaned over close so his lips were right next to her ear. "Don't worry, we'll both clear out if mom and dad start fighting," he whispered. Then he gave her some distance and whispered louder, "You're gonna want to trade in two cards, but trust me, just trade _that_ one." He tapped the card he meant with one finger.

Chelsea set her cards down. "Maybe I should go," she said, and started getting up. "This was really fun, but..."

"_Sit down!"_ both Dom and Marcus snapped, just as Cole grabbed her elbow and jerked her back down on her butt next to him.

The next moment was disconcerting. Marcus stared at Dom with unnaturally clear glacial blue eyes, seeming to battle with Dom's fiery black glare. It seemed to be a conversation, but not one she could actually discern. Instead of words, the two men seemed to communicate with a tightened jaw here, a furrowed brow there, and various inclines of the head, raised eyebrows and tightening around the mouth. It was like the two of them could read each other's micro expressions so well they didn't need words.

Chelsea leaned toward Cole. "What's going on?" she asked.

Cole shrugged. "If they wanted us kids to know, they'd say something."

"I didn't mean to cause a family feud."

"Might not be you. They do this sometimes. Could be shit at work."

"Can she stay or not, Marcus?" Dom said, finally bursting the bubble of silence surrounding the two.

"Depends," Marcus said. "What's going to happen to you when she moves on?"

"Don't pull out that shit. I'm offering assistance to former medical officer, not adopting a pet. If she was a guy, would you have a problem with it?"

Silence stretched out, and then Marcus finally let his eyes drop, apparently letting it go. "You good, Cole?" he asked.

"I'm good, Sarge," Cole said, trading out cards for himself.

Dom's eyebrows flashed upward. "That mean she can stay?"

"Whoa," Chelsea said. This was getting out of hand fast. "I really shouldn't stay here. Obviously I'd be imposing, you don't have a room for me, and then there's the breeding laws. If I stay here more than two weeks..."

"We'll blow that bridge when we come to it," Marcus said. "Besides, we did have a forth roommate until last year."

Cole snorted. "Yeah. After Baird, living with a girl is gonna be a walk in the park. I can't remember how many times I had to clean axle grease out of the sink, pick up spare parts laying everywhere..."

Dom jerked one thumb over his shoulder. "See those rails on the ceiling?" Sure enough, there was a semi-circle on the ceiling marked by curtain rails. With curtains hanging, Chelsea guessed the semi-circle would envelop a space six feet across and ten feet long. "That was Baird's room. He built it so he'd have some privacy. We still have the curtains and the cot he slept on around here somewhere."

"We don't have any extra blankets though," Cole said. "Baird took his."

Chelsea rubbed at her temples with both hands. This was a lot to take in. Could she possibly stay here? She shouldn't--there were strict policies at work about her socializing with 'clients.' However, there were also strict policies against employees sleeping in their offices, and she had nowhere else to go.

"I can't believe my landlord stole my blankets," she said. "You know, I don't even care about that stuff? Blankets, clothes, those I can replace. My mom's got all the family pictures we salvaged with her up at the VA care center, but my dad was a Major in the COG and like an idiot I left his service pistol in that locker because Bender Fields didn't allow weapons on the premises. I should've told them to shove it and kept it with me."

All three of the guys went silent. Marcus picked up his beer and took a short swig, then let the bottle neck dangle from three fingers. Cole glanced at him, and he glanced at Dom. "That sound like theft of COG issued weaponry to you guys?"

Stealing weaponry from a Gear was a war crime. Sera was still technically under martial law, even though local governments had begun to pick up the slack.

"It sure does," Dom agreed, a smile spreading across his face unlike any she'd seen before. For the first time, she saw the predator in Dom Santiago, and it was a little frightening to behold.

"Ah, shit. It's on," Cole said, almost gleeful.

"Wait," Chelsea said. "How can it be theft of COG issued weaponry? I was never a Gear, and my dad's been gone a long time."

"Your dad. He die in service?"

Chelsea lowered her eyes and nodded. It was hard, remembering her dad.

"That's good enough for me." Marcus killed his beer in about three pulls, an impressive feat even for a man of his size, then let the empty bottle bang down on the table and wiped his mouth on the back of one hand. He marched over to the closet, jerking down three extremely heavy duffel bags from the top shelf and letting them crash to the floor. The forth bag he opened, pulling out a COG issue Lancer glistening with a light coat of storage oil.

He checked the tension on the Lancer's chain saw, pulling the chain away from the frame and then manually forcing it to move around to ensure it didn't catch. With all fingers clear, he found the ignition button with his thumb and punched it. The saw revved to life, sounding dry and scratchy at first but quickly self-distributing oil until the chain whipped around at a wicked purr.

It was a well maintained weapon.

Marcus let the saw wind to a stop. He glanced over at Dom and Cole, still seated and watching him carefully.

"Suit up, Delta. We're goin' hunting."


	7. Chapter 7

Chelsea took a deep breath, but instead of calming the tremors running through her entire body, the extra oxygen brought them into sharper focus. The hair standing up on the back of her neck, the way her head sometimes felt floaty. She couldn't tell if it was fear or anxious anticipation.

Dom walked next to her, fully decked out in metal plate COG gear, carrying his fifteen pound Lancer in one hand like it weighed nothing. "Just do like we told you, and everything will be fine, Chelsea," he said, as though he could sense her inner turmoil.

Marcus walked on the other side of her, Cole just flanking the three of them. With the exception of her in plain clothes, they were a mean looking crew. Even civilians used to seeing COG patrols in their neighborhood would pause and give them a second glance before carefully avoiding them. Maybe they recognized Delta squad with their distinctive lack of helmets and a grizzled Marcus Fenix taking point. Chelsea could imagine Delta carried quite a stigma amongst the locals. During the war, wherever Delta went, hell followed close behind.

They approached the bar where her former landlord kept his office. It was late on a weeknight, but the place was packed. Even though Sera was hurting for the necessities to keep people alive there was no shortage of alcohol. Blankets and decent clothing were tough to come by, but there were more than enough establishments to drown sorrows in.

_It's like war profiteering. They're making a killing off misery._

"Dom, Cole, hit the back door," Marcus ordered. "We'll go straight down the gut."

"You'll do great," Dom smacked her on the shoulder before breaking off, circling around the building with Cole.

"Let us do the talking until we find him," Marcus reminded. "Act like anyone else is beneath you."

Chelsea nodded. She hoped she had a handle on playing this part. If she didn't follow Marcus's lead to the letter someone might get killed. _Just not my boys, please._ Why didn't they let her talk them out of this? She didn't understand why it meant so much to them. Were they doing it for her, or her father?

They walked into the bar side-by-side. A bouncer in a black t-shirt tried to stop them at the door, but Marcus stepped in front of her, towering over the heavy-set man. The other man was probably a former Gear himself, but he'd gone soft around the middle since the war while Marcus had maintained a hard physique that could be compared with various inanimate objects such as a truck, or a tank.

The full plate armor also helped. There was hardly a place on a Gear's body that didn't have enough metal on it to break bones when applied with force to another human being's anatomy. A couple more bouncers walked over, eying them. Chelsea had no doubt they would've stopped her in a second, but even with superior numbers, none of them wanted a piece of Marcus.

"My employer has unfinished business with the owner of this bar," Marcus informed the bouncer standing before him, his voice had more bite than the chainsaw on his Lancer.

"He ain't in."

"Let me be clear," Marcus said, stepping within mere inches of the man and leaning down so they were almost nose-to-nose. "I'm going to skin a man alive tonight. I get paid by the hour, so I don't really care _who, _or how longit takes_._"

The bouncer edged back a step. Chelsea couldn't blame him. It wasn't just the fact that Marcus was a big, scarred bastard in full Gear armor; it wasn't even the freakish clear-blue eyes with the 10,000 yard stare of a stone cold killer; it was something deeper. He didn't have to talk tough. Something about him personified 'I am the baddest motherfucker in a world full of monsters' with disturbing certainty. "I'll go see if he's in."

"Allow me." Marcus shouldered past the man, not checking to see if she followed. She did. She gave him a few feet for maneuvering in case he needed it, but otherwise she basically stuck right on his ass.

A path cleared before them, and when the crowd didn't part fast enough, Marcus just had to lean on them a little to motivate them to get out of his way. Like a war horse on a battle field, Chelsea mused.

They made it to a door in the back marked 'No Patrons.' It was dead bolted and chained, but Marcus booted it, breaking it clean off the hinges. The door swung haphazardly from the chain meant to keep them out. Lancer up on his shoulder, Marcus did a methodical check of the room. Besides some kid standing at a sink washing glasses, it was completely empty.

"Don't shoot me!" the kid said, holding both hands up. "Oh god, are you with the COG health department?"

"Do I look concerned with your health?" Marcus asked, breezing past him to another door, this one wedged open. He entered cautiously, forming up to the left of the doorway before swinging inside, doing a check of left corner, center, right corner, behind the door. Textbook Gear maneuver. "Don't get up unless you want to die today," he growled at someone inside. Over his shoulder he motioned for her to come up on him.

Inside she found her landlord and some of his friends sitting around a table. Apparently they'd been playing cards until Marcus busted up the party. At the back of the room, Dom and Cole were just coming in, shoving a couple guys in black t-shirts ahead of them.

"This guy's got a whole stash of goodies," Cole said. "Drugs, weapons, ledgers. It looks like he's even jacked the food bank a couple times."

"I assure you, all my business practices are legitimate," the landlord said, holding both hands in the air.

"Right. And I own a unicorn that shoots rainbows out its ass," Cole said.

Marcus dragged her former landlord to his feet with one hand. "You boys sit tight. Your boss will be back in pieces in a minute." He shoved the landlord toward the door Dom and Cole had just come through, where the 'inventory' was kept. The shove nearly sent him tumbling to the ground, but fear of what Marcus might do to him with those big armored boots motivated him to stay on his feet.

Chelsea followed, doing her best to seem cool and uninterested. Like she owned this COG-trained muscle, and sending it out after people wasn't anything special.

In the back, Marcus threw his hostage toward a lone rectangular crate marked 'toiletries' sitting near the loading dock. "Sit down," he ordered, standing back several feet and waiting for the landlord to comply.

"I've got money, whatever you want," he mumbled pathetically, taking a seat on the crate, one hand up in a placating gesture.

Leaving Cole to stand guard over the rest of the lackey posse, Dom joined them, looking like the meanest son-of-a-bitch to walk the planet. He was nothing but fury and focus--this Dom didn't smile, and never had in his life.

Chelsea held up a hand to stop him from approaching her landlord. "Wait," she said. Dom stopped, still all sharp angles but listening for her instructions. "Not yet."

"Let me kill him, boss." The words were soft, but they left no doubt; something deep inside Dom hungered for the kill, like a wild dog starved to madness--longing to sink teeth into the fatted calf protected by the rest of the herd. The effect wasn't lost on Chelsea's former landlord. Before he'd cowered in terror from Marcus; now he stared at Dom, hardly blinking like it might save him if he could see death coming.

"If he's unhelpful, then he's all yours," Chelsea said, walking up the crate and stopping just out of arm's reach. She made sure to stand where Marcus would still have a clear shot if he did lunge for her. "What's your name?"

"Tyler Coren," the landlord said. "Shit, you're that woman that got evicted. It was nothing personal..."

"Wrong, Tyler. It _is_ personal. I used to be a medic in the COG. Did you know that?"

Coren shook his head.

"That's because you were a Stranded piece of shit," she kept her voice so steady it almost spooked her. "You have no idea what it's like to be a part of a family like the COG. When you fuck with one of us, you fuck with all of us. I offered to pay these guys to kill you for stealing my personal belongings, but when they heard what you did to me they offered to gank you for free."

"If you want your place back, it's yours."

"I'll be damned if I give you another dime of rent. I want my shit back!"

"I'm telling you, lady. I have no way of knowing where that stuff might be. One of my guys might've taken it home by accident..."

Chelsea turned her back and walked away. "Kill him," she said, passing the guys.

Finally let off the chain, Dom closed the distance like a shark gliding in to strike prey. He kicked Coren in the chest, knocking the wind from him and breaking ribs. Coren fell flat on his back on the crate, his head hanging off the rear edge. When he looked up, he found Dom leaning over him, one boot on his chest to keep him horizontal. Then Marcus came into his vision, revving up the chainsaw on his Lancer and getting ready to cut through his neck with a single downward sweep.

Coren threw up his hands. "Wait!" he screamed. "Wait, it might still be in the truck! Don't kill me!"

Marcus gave Dom a _Do you believe it? _look.

Dom shrugged, leaning an elbow casually on his knee, increasing the weight pressing down on Coren's chest and drawing gasps and whimpers from him. "He did just piss his pants, so it's possible he's telling the truth."

"Stay here," Marcus said to Dom. He waved Chelsea over and the two of them headed for the back door, where the truck would be parked.

"Please, wait!" Coren called after them, choking from barely contained tears and the weight Dom was placing on his chest. "Don't leave me with this guy! He's going to kill me!"

"Got that right," Dom said, pulling the six inch knife on his chest from its sheath and twirling it expertly around his fingers. Coren screamed desperately after them, even though Dom hadn't touched him.

Chelsea followed Marcus out the back. He stepped off the loading dock, pausing to offer her a hand to hop down after him. They walked up to an extended cab pickup, and Marcus put his glove-encased fist through the passenger window.

Chelsea gave him a look of wry amusement. "I think it was unlocked."

"Was it?"

She smirked. Marcus _was_ enjoying himself.

Marcus pulled open the door for her, and she jumped in, careful to avoid the broken glass on the seat. She searched the front bench, and then the rest of the extended cab. In the dark, her hands found a large bundle on the floor behind the seat. "I think I found it." She pulled the bundle out, hopped out of the cab and laid it on the hood before unwrapping it. Her blanket served as the bag, so it wasn't surprising to find her pillow, clothing, and the rest of her worldly belongings. All except the pistol.

"It's not here," she said, feeling like she could sink into a pile right there and not get up for a long time.

"Hang on," Marcus said, reaching with one arm into the truck. Chelsea saw a moment of effort pass over his face, and at the same time heard what sounded like a plastic case breaking open. He fumbled for a second, then pulled her father's service pistol from the console. "Locked glove compartment," he explained, handing over the weapon.

The familiar weight of holster and pistol was so comforting in her hand. Chelsea clipped the holster on her belt, pulling her coat to cover it. "Thanks," she said, unable to look Marcus in the eye just then. She feared becoming emotional in front of him.

Marcus put a finger to his ear. "We're clear, Delta. Let's roll." He signaled that she should get in the truck, and Chelsea did, climbing into the back seat. Marcus got in behind the wheel, pulling wires from beneath the steering column and touching them together. The engine coughed a few times, but it didn't turn over. "Ah, come on," he growled.

Dom ran out first and came around to the driver's seat, eying Marcus's work on hot wiring the truck. "You got it?" he asked.

"What's it look like?"

"It looks like you need to move over." Dom put a shoulder into Marcus's side and climbed into the truck, forcing him to scoot to the passenger seat. Dom fumbled with the bundle of wires. "Damn it, Marcus. I've showed you how to do this a hundred times." The engine roared to life.

Marcus shrugged. "Can't be perfect at everything."

Hearing the engine turn over, Cole ran out to meet them just as Dom pulled up alongside the loading dock. Cole jumped into the bed of the truck, landing in a deep crouch. The springs creaked their protest at the sudden addition of the large Thrashball player. With tires screeching against pavement, they flew out of the alley and turned onto the street.

"I've really missed driving," Dom said. He gunned the engine, shifting up a gear. They weaved through the incredibly sparse traffic at twice the legal limit. "Hey, Chelsea, would you believe me if I said Marcus drives like an old lady?"

"When you've got a gunner in a turret, sometimes it helps him shoot better and thus keep everyone alive if the driver isn't yanking the vehicle all over the road," Marcus said, almost defensive. He was hanging onto the 'oh shit' handle above his head so he wouldn't get thrown around.

Dom kept right on going, ignoring the aside. "During the war, what really sucked about Marcus always driving was fighting over who got to sit shotgun. On our worst days of the war, Delta hung together. Then Hoffman would send us out in a vehicle to pick up something in Jacinto--basically a risk free mission, right? One time we got out to the vehicle and I called shotgun first..."

"Baird claimed he called it first, but the rules was we all had to be outside the barracks before anyone called it," Cole said, speaking through the sliding window between the cab and the truck bed. Cole had sat down in the back, splitting his attention between the conversation and making sure no one followed them.

"Next thing, me and Baird went to the ground, slugging it out over sitting up front. I mean, at twenty--twenty years old--I had a four year old and a three year old, and if they'd done that I would've spanked them both. Then at thirty-something I'm brawling with another soldier over the most childish shit."

Marcus turned around. "Hey, Cole. Maybe we should've spanked them for pulling that horseshit?"

Cole's rumble of laughter carried loud through the cab over the rush of wind flying through the broken passenger window. "We should've! Can you imagine what Baird would've said if we had?"

"Man," Dom said. "If you'd tried it that day, I would've taken you guys on too. I was in no mood."

"We should've made a paddle, and every time those two started squabbling..." Cole said, grinning big. The implication was clear.

"So who won?" Chelsea asked.

Dom shook his head. "Cole stepped over us and hopped into the front seat. He and Marcus left us there. A passing LT slapped us with a disciplinary action and threw us in the brig for 48 hours."

"You shoulda seen the way Fenix sweet-talked the girl in booking to let you boys out early," Cole said. "Sarge was smooth as the Cole Train."

"Where should we dump this thing?" Marcus asked, referring to the truck.

"By the docks," Dom said. "In an hour someone'll jack it."

"That's gonna be a long walk back home," Cole reminded.

"We'll jog it," Marcus said. "You good with that?"

Chelsea nodded. "Sure. I could use the exercise." After that the ride was quiet, except when Dom would gun the engine to whip past someone. Chelsea held her bag of items close, feeling right for the first time since she'd gotten her discharge. She'd missed this feeling of companionship. It hadn't been as strong in the medical units as with squads of Gears in the field, but she'd missed it, along with her mother, brothers and her dad. "Thanks for helping me, you guys," she said, keeping her eyes down in case they started to water. "You risked your lives for me, and I really appreciate it."

"It needed to be done," Marcus said. "That motherfucker left a COG Officer out in the cold to die. Tomorrow we'll report him to COG patrol. They'll make his life a real hell." To Delta, that was all that needed to be said on the subject. Someone messed with one of theirs, and they set out to systematically destroy him.

Chelsea was glad to be on their side.

* * *

_Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for the feedback I've gotten so far. It's been really great, and I hope you're all still enjoying the story. For those wondering, there will be more Baird in the near future. I wasn't planning to have him be central to the story, but I think maybe he wants to be. Crazy stuff, huh?_


	8. Chapter 8

The four of them arrived home late, grabbing food just down the street from the apartment building and eating on the way up the eight flights of stairs. Soon after they arrived home, Marcus and Cole went to bed. Dom stayed up, helping Chelsea set up her cot and the heavy curtains that would give her some privacy.

"So, you haven't mentioned what rent is for you guys," Chelsea said while tucking her fitted sheet around the corners of the thin mattress. The entire evening had passed in a surreal blur. It felt almost traitorous after everything they'd done for her, but she still had extreme reservations about accepting hospitality from these guys. At the best of times she was strung out on adrenaline, down to her last nerve with a twitchy trigger finger. To say the least, she would not be an ideal roommate. Not when they really got to know her.

Not if they startled her awake and she accidentally shot one of them...

With the heavy lifting done, Dom sat on the couch, inspecting each plate from his armor for damage and rust before packing it into a duffel bag. He was such a steady guy. At work, relaxed at home, or in a fight he always seemed to exude a calming presence. Chelsea could see why he and Marcus had stuck together. They were fire and ice, perfectly symmetrical opposites. Marcus, the cold calculating leader. Dom the fiercely passionate underdog, so easy to relate to. "What were you paying before?" he asked.

"Five hundred."

"What, serious?" he asked. "We're only paying four hundred each for this place. You don't even get your own room, so you should pay half of that."

"You can't possibly let me stay here for two hundred a month."

"Why not? Lowers my rent. Can't complain about that."

"Let's talk to Marcus and Cole about it first, okay?" she said slowly. "Besides, this should just be temporary. I'll get a place..." She'd called around during her lunch break that afternoon. There were maybe a dozen landlords in the entire city. They'd all laughed at her. But there were still a few private residences, and some of them were renting out rooms. She really just needed a space on some floor long enough to lay down on--a large closet would do.

Dom scoffed. "Are you kidding? There's no way you're gonna get a place, Chelsea. COG set you up with that place, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, things have gotten worse since then. Single females are basically discriminated against. How many times did you have guys break in?"

Chelsea sighed. Those were events she didn't like to think about. Each one had been traumatic in its own right. Every single time it happened she had to pull her pistol and shoot to kill before her brain fully came awake. For weeks after, she'd jerked awake at every little sound, every footstep that passed her door. Eventually, her luck would run out. "Several the first year, but it's been quiet for six months."

"It wouldn't have stayed quiet forever. How many bodies did they have to drag out?"

Chelsea missed a beat. For a long moment she stood perfectly still, frozen with a half-unfolded sheet in hand. "Five, no six..." she finally said. She sucked in a deep breath. Interesting, that she never kept a tally. A mechanism to protect herself, perhaps. Realizing how many times death had come knocking on her door was a tough pill to swallow. It hadn't been so hard when grubs were the enemy. They wanted everyone dead, and they made it quick. Weird how that had been easier to wrap her head around. Humans, they were the ones who made victims long for death. "One guy brought a friend," she said.

Dom grimaced. "Sick..." he mumbled, talking to himself. "That's why landlords don't like single women. It's not your fault, but you attract trouble. You're lucky to be alive, and..." He stopped, like he couldn't say it. Rape had become more common after the war, and even more common since COG let go a large number of its patrol-ready Gears. "If you had a husband, or a brother, or something--no one would bother you. Most men are former Gears. I'm not saying that's how it should be, but that's how it is."

"Regardless, I can't stay here. I'm not related to any of you. The breeding laws..."

"Chelsea, if some pussy bureaucrat told _my_ daughter she had to get pregnant when she didn't want to, I'd knock his teeth out. _Especially_ if he tried to order her to get busy with Marcus or Cole," he said, exasperated at the thought. She thought it interesting he hadn't included himself in that tally. Partner selections weren't picky. As far as she knew, with multiple partners available it was basically a random draw. The Population Control Division basically pointed at one male and one female and said _You and you, start having kids or go to jail._ That was after the mandated 'physical,' of course. "You got me? Just, don't worry about it. No paper pusher wants to mess with eight hundred pounds of pissed off Delta squad."

"And if they try to haul me off to jail, or worse--to a farm?" Then she'd have the legally mandated number of kids one right after another. What were they up to now, three? Going on four? She wouldn't get to choose the father. If she was lucky, she'd get treated to artificial insemination. There were rumors that some of the doctors in charge of that sort of thing liked to bring in burly war vets as breeding stock--and the kind of guys who went for that sort of thing weren't exactly amiable partners.

Dom pointed to his bag. "Do you think the army just let us walk out the door with all our armor and weapons? We mostly play by the rules, but we're not boy scouts. _And _we're well armed. They're not going to take you out of here."

_Not alive,_ was the unspoken implication. Very few people put up strong resistance to the government these days. What would happen if they did? What if they died? What if they died for her? Chelsea sat down on her bed. Pieces of dark blond hair had come loose from her pony tail, and she absently picked at the ends. She'd taken off her boots and when Dom went to bed she'd go take a shower and change into her pajamas.

It only took a few minutes of weighing her options to decide she wouldn't let that happen. Besides her family, these were the best soldiers, the best _men_ she'd ever met. She'd take the bullet for them. She'd take the gamble, and she'd accept the consequences if shit went bad. "Hey, Dom?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"You kinda rock."

That pulled a nice smile out of him. "Thanks, kid," he said, already comfortable enough to give her a nickname. It was nice, to be accepted--but it stung too. No one had bothered to dub her anything but 'Chelsea' or 'Ferria' since her oldest brother Eric died. Her brother used to tease her, call her the stupidest things, and she would get so mad at him. Fuck, if she didn't miss it like crazy now.

Chelsea fell asleep that night with her pistol at her hip and three heavy-duty Gears in the next room. She hadn't felt so safe in her entire life.


	9. Chapter 9

Chelsea's eyes flew open the next morning when the apartment door opened. Her pistol silently cleared its holster, and she rose from the cot, pushing aside the curtain, ready to fire.

She found Damon Baird raiding the fridge.

"Shit, you scared me," she said, re-holstering her firearm. In the moment, she'd fallen back on hardwired training. She'd felt no fear, done no thinking. Point, shoot, acquire next target. Now her heart pounded at the fright, fueled by the adrenaline dump.

Baird glanced up. He was covered in soot, from his boots and cargo pants to his undershirt and even his platinum blond hair. It looked like he'd washed his face, but there were cleaner circles around his eyes where his goggles sat while he worked. Chelsea wondered what in the world they'd had him doing that got him so dirty.

"Don't tell me they've got you sleeping on the piece of shit cot." He shook his head. "I can't even remember how many times I fixed that damn thing." He pulled two beers from the fridge, along with a huge carton of eggs. "Have a brew. It's free and I hate drinking alone."

Chelsea approached slowly, suddenly painfully aware she didn't have a bra on. Then again, her t-shirt was probably baggy enough it didn't matter. It was a Cougars shirt that had belonged to one of her brothers before it passed on to her. "It's pretty early."

Baird set the eggs and one beer by the range top, slapping the other cold bottle into her palm. "By 'early,' you actually mean 'late.' It's six in the morning. Past my bed time."

That's right. Baird worked nights. Apparently he was a whirlwind at everything he did. Bowls and utensils flew out of cupboards and drawers. Chelsea tried to remove the cap from her beer, only to confirm her suspicions that it was definitely _not_ a twist off, and Marcus Fenix must have hands of steel.

"Give it over," Baird said upon noting her difficulties.

At first Chelsea was perplexed when he brought the bottle level with the zipper on his cargo pants. She thought perhaps he would use the bottom of his shirt to remove the cap, or was about make a lewd joke. To her honest surprise, he easily caught an edge of the cap under the side of his belt buckle and popped it off in a smooth, practiced motion. He handed it back to her.

"You know," she said. "Because I grew up in a primarily male household, I'm half tempted to ask what else you can do with that thing, but I'm afraid you'd tell me."

Baird smirked. "Oh, I'll bet Fenix and Santiago just _love _you." The words dripped with sarcasm. Until he said it, she hadn't noticed that she restrained her sense of humor around Dom and Marcus. Sure she felt comfortable enough to crack a joke, but her mind got a little dirty sometimes and this was the closest she'd come to loosening the reins in a long time. Baird used the same trick with his belt buckle to open his own beer--funny how she halfway enjoyed watching him do that--and clinked the glass against hers. "Drink up, smartass. It's Fenix's beer, and that almost makes up for the fact that it tastes like shit."

Chelsea obeyed. The bitter taste didn't mesh well with her stomach so early in the morning and she winced at the taste. "Is Marcus going to be pissed we're drinking this?" she asked belatedly, closely examining the label. She didn't recognize the moniker--probably some local brewer.

"Why don't you go ask him?" Baird cracked about ten eggs into a bowl, then glanced at her, his eyes seeming to measure her up.

"What?" she asked.

"I'm trying to figure out how much a girl your size can eat. On the other hand, if I don't make enough you'll probably have to beat Cole off your share." He cracked a few more eggs into the bowl.

"Sounds like a losing battle for me."

"Yeah, but great entertainment for me," he said, moving past her to grab some salt off the pantry shelf to add to the eggs. He was younger than his Delta teammates, and decidedly higher strung. Chelsea pegged his age at approximately thirty. He probably would've been under the age cap to remain a Gear after the war ended, so why did he leave?

"I thought you didn't live here anymore?" Chelsea said, taking another sip of her drink.

"I don't live here. Sometimes they pull me in on a job with these fuckheads and I come here after work instead of going home. I live way out, in the new constructs. It's way nicer than this hole." He tried to reach past her again, pausing. "This is inefficient," he concluded. The next thing she knew, he'd placed his hands gently on her hips and moved her back to the counter, lifting so she was seated on top of it. He handled her like she weighed nothing. "Sit there, stir this," he said, handing her the bowl with eggs in it. While she busied herself with her assigned task, Baird grabbed flour, sugar, and other ingredients--dumping them into another bowl in unmeasured quantities.

"I'm really glad for the curtains," she offered after a few minutes of silence. "They were a good idea."

"Yeah, I should've known Dom would pull you in here. The way he acts you'd think he was Saint Santiago, the patron of lost causes. At least you're salvageable. I don't know why he wastes his time with Marcus."

"It kind of seems like they're family."

"Maybe so," he said, grabbing a skillet from inside the oven and placing it on the stove top to heat with a little oil in it. "What about you? Why not grab yourself a boyfriend and go shack up for a few weeks?"

Chelsea scoffed. "Right. Who would want me?"

Baird halted; the first time during the two brief encounters she'd had with him that he'd completely stopped everything he was doing. His blue-green eyes scoured her from head to toe, pausing twice on her less-than-ample bust. His bald staring made her blush, the heat flaring up in her cheeks before spreading to the back of her neck. She fidgeted, trying to pretend she didn't notice. If she'd sensed something predatory in his assessment, it would've been one thing--but it seemed mechanical, with a bit of admiration thrown in. It wasn't like there was a lot to see. Her pajamas were at least half a size too big, top and bottom.

"I'm not seeing any screaming deformities. You got crotch rot or something?"

"No!" Chelsea protested, making a sour-lemon face. "Ugh. That's so gross."

Baird shrugged one shoulder. "In that case, I fail to see the problem. You're a physically mature woman without kids, which automatically makes you smokin' hot. Don't tell me guys haven't propositioned you."

"I've gotten some unattractive leers, but I've never had a guy actually come up and ask me to go out on a date. I just kind of figured I wasn't very good looking." It went deeper than that, but why mention it? Any time she attracted male attention, she regarded it with suspicion. She'd seen girls come into clinic beat to hell, their insides torn up. Lots of those stories started out consensual and ended in a nightmare. She'd catch a look from a guy and suddenly she'd snap back to one of those memories, imposing her own face onto one of those young women who were drugged, or beaten, or cut up. Or just flat out murdered.

It didn't take much creativity to imagine her body growing cool on a slab in some morgue. If Chelsea died, no one would miss her. Her own mother had sunk so deep into mental illness, she probably would just build her daughter into delusions if Chelsea stopped showing up in person.

"Looks aren't your problem. Your problem is the rest of the girls in this city don't care if a man drags them back to his cave by the hair as long as they get mauled until pregnant."

In spite of his crudeness, she couldn't help smiling at the tone of voice he used. Clearly, he enjoyed being absurd. "I guess I'd like to be wined and dined before getting dragged back to any cave. Besides, I've helped deliver a few babies. It's a long, dirty, painful process--and most of the time, the father is hardly in the picture. Not really what I'm looking for."

"Wow. A chick who doesn't want to get knocked up." Baird paused. "Huh. I guess that means you really aren't after Santiago."

Chelsea's eyebrows flashed up in shock. "_What_?" she asked. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Oh, come on. You have to know what it looks like, you moving in here. Dom's a father of the year type. He's all _I had two kid by eighteen, and I was such a great father._ The part no one mentions is he enlisted--so his old lady did most of the work, and he probably got to come home on leave and be his kids' best buddy for a week or two before he got shipped out on another mission. Still, girls who want kids gravitate toward him, even though Cole's the smart money."

"Dom's a little old for me."

"I know it's hard to fathom, but he's had pieces of ass younger than you throw themselves at him. It's disgusting in no small part because he _always_ shoots them down. I mean, I get it, I really do. He misses the wife and rug rats. I don't begrudge the man his pain, but he could take one for the team, you know?"

"And the Sergeant?"

"Same story. Getting laid would require Marcus to unclench his ass and remove the stick he keeps there. He had a hot Lieutenant practically on her knees, begging him to rip her clothes off for seventeen years, and he blew it."

"Really?" It'd been a long time since Chelsea had caught up on the COG gossip, apparently. A female officer fraternizing with an enlisted man, especially Marcus Fenix, would've been a huge scandal in theory, but probably not so much in practice. With the current condition of Sera, there needed to be more people in the world like Marcus, Dom and Cole--and everyone knew it. The fact that none of Delta had any blood descendants was something of a tragedy. If the best men left on Sera never reproduced, there would be a lot of scumbags in the world.

Baird snatched the bowl of eggs from her, pouring them into the hot skillet. "He really did. Do me a favor. Go wake those assholes up? Food's gonna be on in five minutes."

Chelsea slid down off the counter top, taking her beer with her. Interesting how Baird could bash his buddies so easily while doing nice things for them. If she didn't know any better, she'd almost think he missed them. Maybe living out in the new constructs on his own was lonely. Working alone at night and then going home to an empty apartment had to be a serious adjustment after spending virtually every minute surrounded by other Gears. There'd be some backlash, even for a loner engineer like Baird.

The second bedroom on the right was Dom's room, and Chelsea decided to try him first. She knocked softly on his door. "Dom?" she called.

"You're doing it wrong," Baird called from the kitchen. "Wake up Fenix or Cole first. They've got the lungs on 'em."

Chelsea tried Dom's doorknob, finding it locked. She returned to the first door on the right, Marcus's room, and found the door unlocked. The sun was already shining through the thin curtains. She could see Marcus's large form stretched diagonally across his bed--and it was a full sized bed, not just a cot. She wondered where he'd found it.

"Marcus. Hey, Marcus!" She stood a few feet from the bed, knowing better than to get too close. Veterans typically needed to wake up gently. Marcus didn't appear to be armed, but he could crush her with his bare hands--which would be a shitty way to start off the day.

The Sergeant rolled over, rubbing one eye with the heel of his palm. "You're up early," he grumbled. It was the second time she'd ever seen him without his bandanna. Dom was right, he didn't seem to sleep in it.

"Baird's here. He made breakfast and he said I should wake you guys up." She took a sip of beer, and the eye he wasn't rubbing tracked the movement. "I may owe you a drink..." she added, feeling a little ashamed.

Marcus sighed, heaving himself out of bed. He was wearing a pair of sweats, but no shirt. Even with the war over, he still resembled a brick shithouse. His height gave him the appearance of being less stocky than Dom or Cole, but he was bigger than Baird--not that Baird was slender, he was just a bit closer to normal-sized than his compatriots. She wondered when these guys fit in working out, because unless they all had super-soldier genes there was no way they'd remained so solid without some serious time at the gym.

Chelsea shook her head, catching herself before she started obviously staring at him. "I'll get out of your way." She turned to go, but not before Marcus caught her wrist and pulled her back.

"Need to borrow this," he said, gently removing the beer from her hand and taking a drink.

"You not a morning person?" she asked.

"Not today," he said tiredly, handing the beer back to her. She gave him a curious look. "Bad dreams," he explained. Then he waved her off.

Chelsea closed his door behind her. No more than ninety seconds later he walked out in work clothes, his fingers working at tying the bandanna around his head. "Dom, Cole! Fall in!" he shouted. Baird was right. Marcus didn't say much, but Chelsea had no doubt his 'Sergeant Voice' could cut through a firefight like a Lancer saw through human flesh.

The smells coming from the kitchen made her stomach growl, and Chelsea arrived just in time for Baird to load her arms with plates for the five of them. Marcus joined them, grabbing silverware out of a drawer and helping her set five places on the closet-door table with books for legs.

"If it's not our fearless leader. Morning, sunshine," Baird taunted.

"See you made yourself at home," Marcus said, as if he had this conversation with Baird every morning.

"Yeah. I figure if you guys are keeping girls on retainer, I should come back and visit once in a while." It easily could've been a deeply cutting comment aimed at Chelsea, but it didn't come off that way. It was clearly meant to needle Marcus, but the effort was half-hearted. More habit than malice.

Marcus continued on, no reaction apparent on his face.

Dom walked out of his room wearing his cargoes and pulling on a faded black t-shirt. "Morning, Princess," he called sarcastically.

For a minute Chelsea thought he meant her, and was confused by the attitude, but then Baird shot back with, "Just keep it up, Santiago! I'll feed your share to the dogs raiding the dumpster downstairs!"

Dom chuckled, taking a seat next to Chelsea on the couch and nudging her with his elbow. "Man, you can't give that guy an inch," he told her. "It's not good for his ego."

"I heard that!" Baird said. He walked over with the skillet of eggs and a plate of pancakes. Shockingly enough, it all smelled good. "When the hell are you idiots going to get a real table?"

"When are you going to make us one?" Marcus countered, taking a seat on a crate.

"Some chairs would be nice too," Baird griped, pulling up a crate of his own. "I mean, you guys have a girl living here now. Bachelor pad over."

"This is actually really nice," Chelsea said. "At my old place I barely had room to stand up and get dressed." She took a bite of eggs, and for a second the explosion of flavor on her tongue overwhelmed her. Her eyes fell shut and for a long moment she just savored it. It seemed like a small thing, but she honestly didn't remember the last time she'd eaten home-cooked food. During the war she lived on base, getting her rations from the cafeteria there. Then, on her own, she'd had no where to cook. She didn't even know how. "Oh my god," she said, in shock. "That's really good."

Baird threw his hands up in an 'alleluia' pose. "Finally, someone who appreciates me! The rest of you dickwads could take a lesson from her."

"Then you wouldn't get to mope around, acting like you're our Cinderella," Dom said, pouring homemade syrup from a jar on a short stack of pancakes. These guys had all the amenities. Sugar, corn syrup and butter weren't exactly handed out with rations. She'd have to find out where they did their grocery shopping, although she suspected it might be something of a black-markets-r-us. "By the way, what's all that black shit all over you, Damon?"

"It's buffing compound, smartass."

"Kind of looks like cinders," Marcus suggested, so deadpan it was hard to tell if he meant to weigh in on the joke or was just stating the obvious. Then again, Marcus struck Chelsea as the type of guy who made a point to avoid stating the obvious.

"The Cole Train smells breakfast!" Cole's exuberance quickly stemmed the flow of the conversation from bad to worse.

"Speaking of Prince Charming," Dom commented, drawing a smile from Chelsea.

It was a good morning. Chelsea kept eating so she wouldn't have to talk. She didn't want them to know that for a couple minutes she got choked up. This felt so reminiscent of eating breakfast in the base cafeteria with her three older brothers. It was stupid little things. The way Cole cut a hole in the center of his pancakes for a syrup lake--Mike used to do that on the rare occasions such things were available. The way Dom and Baird picked at each other--like Eric and Tate always did.

"So I was telling Chelsea she should pay two hundred a month to stay here," Dom said when they were all seated and served.

Marcus shrugged one shoulder. "Sounds good," he said, but he flashed her a look that clearly said _I need a word with you later._ Chelsea took a deep breath. Maybe the outward acceptance was all a show. Perhaps the first chance he got to talk to her one-on-one, Marcus would tell her to take a hike. He seemed the type to air his beefs in public, but obviously his friendship with Dom had some nuances she hadn't caught onto yet.

_He's well within his rights to say 'go.' He was nice enough to give me one or two nights off the street._ _Can't ask for more than that._

"So, you guys are seriously going to do this," Baird said. "You're going to let her stay here? Marcus, you? That's just great. What're you meatheads going to do when a nosy housewife of some former Officer who's already given her legally obligated contribution of kids, _plus_ three extra, sees a young, thin, unattached girl wandering in and out of here with the bunch of you? I'll give you a month _maximum_ before you get reported to the Population Control Division. Then what?"

"If she doesn't stay here, she's on the street," Dom said. "There's no place for single girls in this city."

"I'm not saying kick her out. You guys always charge into shit without making a plan. She's the one who gets locked up until she squeezes out her legally mandated 'contribution' to society if she gets caught living here. And I'm willing to bet some of those girls are never seen again."

"We'll take it under advisement," Marcus said pointedly, using that gruff Sergeant Voice to strike down any further argument. Chelsea wondered how far under advisement it would go. She had a feeling Marcus didn't waiver much. One way or another, he'd made up his mind about her.

Baird scowled, getting ready to launch into argument when Cole kicked him under the table. "Take it easy, Damon. It's gonna be a long day if you and the boss man get into it this early. We'll worry about it after work."

"They got you on with us all day _again_?" Dom asked Baird, not exactly a deft change of subject.

After a moment of sitting with his mouth set, glaring between Marcus and Dom, Baird finally decided to accept the subject was closed. "What can I say?" he said, digging into the mountain of eggs on his plate. "I gave them overnight miracles, and now they want them during the day too. Ungrateful bastards."

Just that quickly, the unpleasantness passed and the five of them resumed eating. That was a male household. After all the squabbling and name calling, everything was still cool. Girls would've taken things more personally.

Since she'd helped 'cook,' Dom insisted that Chelsea was excused from cleaning up afterward. She spent a few minutes in the bathroom, getting dressed, brushing her teeth and crying silently. She watched tears run down her cheeks in the mirror while she re-brushed the same section of her molars a dozen times. For the first time in so long, she felt all the other stresses of life lift away just enough that she could manage some proper mourning. Between sending her mom to VA Living, making rent, and fearing getting jumped at every turn, sometimes the waterworks just dried up.

It only lasted a couple minutes, and after it was over she washed her face with warm water--she couldn't wait to try a warm shower, the night before she'd nearly frozen under the shower head--and ran out to join the guys. They were all going to catch a ride to work in Baird's truck.

The five of them trudged together down the hallway, and into the stairwell.

"Don't know how you guys can stand going up and down all these stairs," Baird commented. "I made damn sure my new place wasn't above the third floor. I'd like to still have working knees at forty."

"It ain't so bad," Dom said, crossing the landing. "Watch this." At the top of the stairs, he carefully situated himself on the center banister, balancing on the seat of his pants.

"You looking to crack your skull open?" Marcus asked wearily, trudging down the steps one at a time.

Baird and Cole both stopped to watch what would come next, Baird with his arms crossed over his chest. "Oh, this'll be good. Get ready to call dibs on Santiago's room, sweetheart. He won't be needing it anymore after this."

"Fuck you, man," Dom said, still working on finding his center. "This'll work. Trust me."

Chelsea wasn't so certain it would work. The banister was thick, but the lower half had no wall to prevent a fall to the next set of stairs. That, and the rail's angle of descent was pretty steep.

"Oh, yes, I trust you," Baird said facetiously, then rolled his eyes. "Are you get this done some time before we have to be at work?"

"I'm going." Dom scooted forward, using his extended arms to keep balanced and leaning uphill when gravity took over. He slid almost gracefully down the rail, picking up speed until he reached the landing below, hopping off onto his feet. "See? Easy!"

Cole smacked Baird on the arm, rubbing his fingers together in such a way that said _Where's my money?_ With an incredulous look on his face, Baird reluctantly reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Shit," he said, smacking a buck into Cole's waiting hand.

"When did you guys make a bet?" Chelsea asked.

Cole smiled big at her. "It's old squad business, baby. Damon always bets against Santiago. He never learns."

"I don't see you getting tired of taking my money," Baird sneered. Not to be outdone, he walked up to the rail and hopped on, sliding down and landing next to Dom with the tiniest of flourishes. "Works better if you start with momentum."

"Well, thanks for clearing that up for me, professor."

"You ladies coming or not?" Marcus boomed from three levels down.

That voice motivated Chelsea to scramble down the stairs. It got the guys moving too, but they were far less hurried. Apparently the 'move your ass _now_' effect of _the_ _Sergeant Fenix Voice_ dulled over time. Even when she caught up with Marcus, she could still hear the three of them shuffling down at a leisurely pace.

"Hey, Dom. Why don't you try sliding down the rail on the fire escape? Give me a chance to win my money back?"

"I'm not suicidal, asshole."

"What? The fire escape ends on what, the forth floor? It's only like a forty foot drop. I'll bet you'd bounce right off the concrete, like a butterball turkey."

A floor down, she heard a loud 'oof' after that, like Dom had punched Baird in the solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs. She glanced at Marcus, but he seemed vastly unconcerned by his squad's antics outside a discernible warzone.

On the way to work, Chelsea sat in the truck bed with Cole. He occasionally nudged her with his elbow and smiled like they were sharing a joke every time the three guys in the cab really started railing on each other. Dom was being an obtuse backseat driver, apparently in imitation of the way Baird behaved when one of them drove--even though Baird had been virtually silent since getting slugged in the stairwell.

"Don't ride up so close on this guy, Baird." Then, twenty seconds later. "Damn, man. Why're you driving so slow? My grandmother goes faster than this, and she's dead."

"Shut your damn mouth, Dom," Baird snapped, finally getting back to normal after his bout of silence--whatever that had been about.

"Don't you know how to use a turn signal?"

"Fuck you too, Fenix!" He obviously reveled in the banter.

It was a very good morning. The best she'd ever had.

* * *

_AN: Long chapter, I know. There really wasn't a great place to break it up, and it just kept going when I was writing it; and going, and going... I feel really narcissistic asking this, but I'm insatiably curious--and I'm not saying this is going to effect how the story will turn out, (but then again, it might)--but if it were necessary for a pairing to be introduced, which Gear would you guys pick for Chelsea? Yes, there will be bonus points for funniest answer to this question--and "none of them!" or "bring back Anya!" or "Baird and Marcus forever!" are acceptable ;-) I'm just asking because it's fun, and regardless of the answers I get I'll probably find them hilarious. I've been really lucky with this story. I've written for a couple other fandoms, but I've never gotten anywhere near the honest, well thought-out feedback like I have from Gears fans. Just about every review I get is intelligent, and I appreciate it so, so much! Thank you, all!  
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	10. Chapter 10

_AN: Thanks so much to everyone who weighed in on the poll from the last chapter. I was actually kind of surprised by the answers I got, and vastly entertained :-) One or two were actually very close to what I had in mind to do from the outset, but the more I develop this story the more things shift around. It should be interesting to see how things fall into place. I can't thank you all enough for the AMAZING feedback I've been getting! That more than anything is driving me to keep pushing through each chapter. Hope you all continue to read and enjoy. _

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* * *

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Marcus tossed the phone receiver back into the truck, cursing under his breath. His jaw was set, and his stance rigid. These were the times when Dom expected Marcus to haul off and punch the next person who spoke to him, but somehow the guy always restrained himself--no matter how ridiculously frustrating his next encounter. That quality unnerved a lot of guys, especially during the war. A soldier who lost it from time to time over small things was normal. A guy who kept it all inside got a lot of sideways glances. People wondered when he'd finally explode, and how much collateral there'd be.

"What'd he say?" Dom asked. He sat on the truck's tailgate next to Cole, lounging and watching the sun rise above the rooftops. For the first time since the previous fall, the outside temperature was actually pleasant early in the morning. The mild breeze flowing between the buildings brushed past them with hint of warmth instead of fanning the biting cold nipping at their exposed skin.

Marcus reached into the cab, fishing a map from among the numerous papers stashed in the passenger-side door pocket. Baird was reclined and dozing in driver's seat. All crews had been on ordered stand-still since they arrived on site. "Said they've got an irate former bank president there. He wanted his vault back for when they rebuild, and he's pissed we didn't make a recovery effort." Marcus turned so his back leaned against the fender panel, gazing across the huge pile of debris they'd created the day before while his fingers worked at unfolding the oil-streaked map.

Cole let out a big sigh, laying down on his back in the truck bed with his fingers laced behind his head, bending his knees so his boots rested on the very end of the tailgate. "Damon's right. They are starting to expect miracles all the damn time."

Most of the building was in the basement now, although there was a domed mound of broken plaster, girders, wood panel, and sheet rock marking the fallen bank's resting place. Every few minutes some of the rubble would shift, causing small cave-ins. That meant there were still pockets inside and it wouldn't be safe to traverse until everything settled. An early morning mist clung to the pile, slowly burning off as the sun inched higher in the sky. The imploding building had thrown a huge amount of dust into the air the day before, but most of it had blown out to sea except for a few wandering clouds of the really fine stuff. The vault itself wasn't visible. They'd buried it under thousands of tons of rubble.

"Did Richtner tell him the building had already collapsed before we got here?" Dom asked.

Marcus made a displeased noise at the back of his throat. "Doesn't seem to matter. They're moving us to a new site, effective immediately." The old paper crinkled in protest when he folded the map in half, his pale eyes studying an area located outside the city.

"But, we haven't even had a chance to go in and make sure everything detonated. There could be explosive left in there, and we know where we laid the charges. The construction guys won't know, and some Stranded kid might pick through the rubble and find that shit."

"As long as they blow themselves up and not us, I see no problem with that," Baird said, throwing in his two cents before turning onto his side and attempting to get back to sleep. "Natural selection," he mumbled.

Marcus scratched the back of his neck, nonplussed. "Well, if you like that part, you're going to love this. Richtner wants to send us out to one of the old imulsion drilling platforms. We're due there in an hour," he said, flicking the spot on the map.

"Man, most of those platforms are at least partially underground," Dom said, swallowing hard. His face had turned a bit gray. "I _hate_ going underground."

Cole slapped him on the back, chuckling. "Look at it this way, man. No one's seen a Locust in years."

"Yeah. Let me check and see if that makes me feel better... Okay, no, it doesn't."

* * *

It took them a solid hour to make it out of the city and find the site. With the mist gone, it had shaped up to be a beautiful sunny day, but the boarded up imulsion refinery located above ground was still a dreary sight. Many of the peripheral concrete structures had crumbled, and while the main structure seemed mostly intact, the earth around it showed evidence of having been scorched. There had definitely been a major fire here.

A shiver ran down Dom's spine. He still remembered all too well the things they'd found at the last drilling platform they'd visited. Bodies, ripped apart by wretches with blood splattered and tracked on the walls, on the ceiling for fuck's sake. The blackened and blistered walls made this place look even more like a tomb than that place had.

"Yup, we're screwed," Dom murmured, gazing at the building out the passenger-side window.

In the driver's seat, Baird noticeably shuttered, but his memories were different from Dom's. "If the only way into this place is through a sewer, you clowns are on your own. I'm waiting in the damn truck."

That drew a chuckle from Cole. "Didn't kill you the last time, baby."

"I smelled like shit for three days in the pursuit of saving the human race. They should've given me a fucking medal, but _nooooo_. It was all '_Oh, Fenix. You're so brave. We should've busted you out of prison sooner!_' Even Santiago got more friggin' recognition than we did. When I disobeyed orders they busted me down to private. I mean, when Santiago disobeyed orders, he went all out. He didn't just break a buddy out of jail--_oh no_--he broke out some crazy-looking bastard serving a life sentence in _the Slab_ for desertion and dereliction of duty--no offense, Fenix.

"None taken."

"And instead of tossing Dom out of the COG for this infraction, they basically threw a fucking parade. All that, and neither of you guys had to wade through knee-deep shit!"

"Yeah, but we had to listen to you bitch about it." Dom reminded. "Besides, who had to deal with the Berserkers? Oh yeah, me and Marcus. Who had to kill Raam? Who nearly went down with the lightmass bomb?" It was worthless to argue with Baird, but sometimes Dom couldn't help himself. The habit was so ingrained it seemed weird when they did get along, which happened more often than he was willing to admit. It was a game and, like two children smacking each other with sticks, they both loved it until it got out of hand. Just that morning Dom had gotten pissed and uppercut Damon in the floating ribs. The younger man had remained silent until Dom started giving him shit on the drive to work, letting him know it was okay--no hard feelings.

"Who always had to fix the vehicles you idiots broke?" Baird countered.

"Enough. You were both contributing members of the team, and all that bullshit," Marcus said, apparently even his endless patience was wearing thin. Dom felt a stab of guilt. It wasn't fair, the way they let Marcus be the adult all the time. He was their Sergeant, still and always. He kept everything so tight to the vest that it seemed like he always had the answers, never faltered. With him around to provide oversight, it felt like it didn't matter if they acted juvenile.

Dom silently promised to pull his head out of his ass more often. Marcus always watched his back, but who watched out for Marcus?

_That's your job, buddy, peace-time or not._

"I think I see some trees over there, boss man. We could still make that paddle," Cole joked, motioning to the wooded area off the driveway and snickering to himself. He reached up to patronizingly rub Baird's head with one gigantic hand. "Teach these two some manners."

"What?" Baird attempted to duck. "Hey, hands off! What's this bullshit about a paddle?"

"Maybe later, Cole. Someone's waiting on us." Marcus nodded toward twelve o'clock, bringing their attention to a company truck ahead of them on the driveway.

Baird pulled up alongside, rolling down the drivers' side window. In the other truck was a kid, late teens or very early twenties. He was skinny with dark hair and features. He'd seen his share of sun over the past few years, so he was definitely a working man, but Dom didn't recognize him.

"You guys Delta crew?" the kid asked.

"I'm not. These retards might be," Baird said, referring to the other guys in his truck. "I thought you guys were 'Crew 23' or something. Who's brilliant idea was it to call yourselves 'Delta?'" Even as he spoke, Dom, Marcus and Cole were bailing out of the vehicle.

Making his way around the truck, Marcus motioned to the kid to join them. Grabbing a bunch of files and a couple blueprint rolls, the kid hopped down, laying the paperwork all out on the truck hood so they could examine it.

"My name's Wes Kendall. I'm supposed to replace Chuck Leen on your team. I heard he retired."

Marcus raised one eyebrow. "Yeah," he said. "I guess 'retired' is one way to put it."

Cole leaned toward the Kendall. "Chuck had a little bit of a drinking problem. Crossed a couple wires and blew off a couple limbs."

"Oh," Wes said.

"We don't tolerate much of that bullshit anymore. Got it, kid?" Marcus asked, pinning him with a stare unnerving enough to make sure he'd never forget this moment, or the conversation attached to it. On his death bed, he'd still remember this moment if he tried hard enough.

"Roger that," Wes acknowledged, a bit unnerved. "Anyway, I've got all the blueprints and info on this site here with me."

"You new to this work?" Marcus asked, smoothing out the blue prints with sweeps of one large hand. It kept trying to roll back up on him until Cole finally pinned down the far edge with one finger.

"Yeah, I'm new. I mean, I used to work construction for a guy and we did some of this, so I've got some experience with demo, but I'm new to the company. Bender Fields did a wave of hiring this week. Pulled in some Stranded," Wes said, like it disgusted him. "Glad I'm not working with them. Some of those guys looked like animals. Stank too."

"The further we get from the war, the more Stranded are going to be part of society," Dom reminded, not like he had an opinion one way or another--just that it was part of life. Unavoidable, and certain. "It's so stupid, the way they act like we're the enemy."

Wes's left eye twitched, but he didn't comment. "They said this would be a viable entrance," he said to Marcus, pointing to a doorway on paper.

"Who said?" Marcus asked.

"Think his name was Richtner."

"Yeah, we've heard of _him_," Cole said. "Ass-ish looking guy. Has delusions of being in charge."

"Careful, Cole Train, he might kick you off his Christmas card list," Marcus said, drawing soft snickers from Dom and Cole. Wes didn't get it, but he pinned on a half-smile anyway, trying to get along with them.

It was an old joke. Richtner had been a big fan of the Cougars as a kid, before the war. He bugged Cole all the time, acting like they were such great buddies, and for the most part Gus handled it with grace. Then one Christmas, Cole received a Christmas letter in the mail from their boss. No one else beneath management got one. It had been too much. Cole read the pathetic letter aloud at home, and the ridiculous verboseness, grammatical errors, and gross self-aggrandizing had sent his roommates rolling on the floor in stitches. Even Marcus had cracked a smile that day.

"Baird?" Marcus called. "Your assistance?"

"Sleeping, Fenix," Damon called from his truck.

"Don't worry. A genius like you can do this in his sleep." Marcus was caustic and impatient. Dom couldn't tell if he was irritated with Baird, Richtner, or with the situation in general, but he sounded ticked.

With plenty of grumbling, Baird grabbed his keys from the ignition and climbed down, joining them in pouring over the plans. Within minutes he was in the midst of an animated conversation with Marcus, calculating the long odds of whether it was safe for them to enter based on the damage caused by the fire, the tensile strength of the walls, whatever.

Dom couldn't help smiling. Damon always made a show of dragging his feet, but when it came down to it, he was more than willing to play ball. In his early days with Delta, he'd just pushed buttons for the entertainment of testing everyone's limits, but over the years he'd developed enough respect for his former teammates to confine his sarcasm to mostly-appropriate times. When there was work to be done, he was all business. Even more telling was the fact that he didn't tolerate working with anyone else now that the war was over.

Dom wandered a few paces out, looking around. He missed the comforting weight of his Lancer. With no rifle to occupy them, his hands itched for something to do, so he stuffed them into his jacket pockets. Sans armor, he felt exposed, and chilled by the breeze coming in off the ocean. Not much wind got through that plate metal--not like what came through the jacket and cargoes he wore to work. Even his calf-high leather boots felt inadequate. This place was isolated. The sort of place he would've wanted to search during the war, see if Maria was there. Now he didn't want any part of it. There could be Stranded here, a left-over pocket of Locusts, anything. The whole place could collapse on them. Baird and Marcus would decide where they entered, if they went in at all. Dom would wait for the go-ahead, but in the meantime, he kept an eye out, looking for danger.

"Richtner happen to mention what he wants us to accomplish today?" Marcus inquired, flipping through every single page of available information. It looked like he was just skimming those pages, but Marcus could absorb information like a sponge. He only had to glance at it once and he knew it forever.

"Just an inspection for now, Sarge," Wes said. So the kid _did_ recognize them.

Marcus grunted in negation. "You see a rank or a uniform out here, kid?"

"No, Sarge."

"That's right, you don't. Call me Marcus, or Fenix," he said, rolling up the blueprints and letting the rubber band snap loudly against the thick roll of paper. He made for Baird's truck, grabbing his duffel out of the back and pulling a sidearm from it. He checked the magazine, locked back the slide before slapping the mag back in and releasing it, putting a bullet in the chamber. Marcus used his thumb to depress a lever on the side of the frame, de-cocking the hammer. Apparently they were going in armed.

Glancing once more at the menacing facility they were about to enter, Dom decided it was a good call.

Baird fell into step next to the kid, who seemed chastened by Marcus's reprimand. "You can call me Corporal," he informed Wes. "Unlike some people, being a war hero doesn't give me a complex. I friggin' earned it."

"You were only a corporal?" Wes asked, unimpressed. "Man, who the hell did you piss off? I made corporal within a year."

"Sometime I'll tell you who I didn't piss off. It'll make a shorter list," Baird freely admitted, following after Marcus. "Besides, those idiots never rose above private," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Dom and Cole.

Dom waited for it, but to his credit, Wes kept walking, very carefully refraining from glancing at him or Cole. Dom remembered what the COG used to be like, before E-Day. If he'd seen a thirty-something year old private or corporal when he was a young man, it would've thrown up flags in his head too. Either something was wrong with a guy like that, or he'd fucked up, big time. He would've kept a sharp eye on that person. During the war with the Locusts, promotions had ground to a halt for the most part. Rank lost its luster as scores of men died. Sometimes squads were led by the most senior private, after the squad leader was killed.

Besides, Dom had forfeited any chance of promoting when he testified on Marcus's behalf. He was more loyal to his childhood friend, the last of his family, than he was to the COG and it ruined any potential he'd had. He was the last in a long line of Santiagos to serve. He'd always loved the army but, when he was about to lose Marcus, he had to face an epiphany that many soldiers never allowed themselves to have. Dom realized the COG couldn't love him back. No matter how much blood, sweat and tears he put into service, the COG couldn't sit down with him over a beer and remember better times, help him mourn his children, brother, parents, Maria. The COG didn't know them, and it didn't know him, either.

When the army was done with them, it was over. They were out, and if it hadn't been for Marcus, Dom had no idea what he would've done. Soldiering had been his only profession since age sixteen. The closest thing to an interview he'd ever had was walking into a recruiting office and signing his name to the dotted line. He could do some mechanics, but there were hardly enough cars working to make that a feasible occupation.

Lots of older Gears got out and just got lost, drinking themselves into oblivion or going homeless. Control had tasked them for so long, it was difficult to learn to task themselves. It was difficult learning to live with the ghosts. Marcus was one of the few who just transitioned. He was a Gear one day, and he was a civilian the next. Bam, no visible transitional period needed. It was Marcus who got them interviews at Bender Fields. With such a steady role model to follow, there was no way the four of them could've failed--although Baird and Cole had seemed better adapted to civilian life than Dom. They'd been drafted into the army. They had some concept of civilian life.

So yeah, Dom would've understood if Wes Kendall had looked at them funny. A kid his age would understand the scope of the war--there was no way he could've escaped it--but it might be harder for him to understand how bleak things had been on the front lines.

On the up side, at least things were going back to normal, even in the military.

* * *

"The main supports seem intact," Baird said, examining some of the reinforced concrete pillars deep inside the drilling compound. "Looks like the fire mostly did superficial damage. It must not have burned very hot, which means it was probably a failed arson attempt, or accidental." The glance he gave the rest of them was meaningful. Most accidental fires were the result of a camp fire getting out of hand, and most camp fires weren't set by Gears.

"Stranded have definitely been here, recently," Marcus determined, sweeping the basement with a flashlight.

The cement walls were a uniform wet-brown color, except where the fire had left black scorch marks. It was warm, but dank, and in spite of the vast colonies of mold overwhelming his sense of smell, Dom detected the faint odor of sewage. There was evidence that someone had bunked down in the lower levels during the winter. A couple old blankets piled in a corner, the occasional dull brass of a spent hammerburst cartridge, the red husks of similarly spent shotgun shells. There was a layer of dust on everything, but in some places it had been swept away.

Marcus leaned down, picking up a brass and noting the tool marks on it. "Looks like someone was trying to reload this ammo," he said. Then, to Wes, he ordered, "We're assuming there's armed hostiles in the area, so stay close to us."

"Yeah, sure," Wes agreed amiably, determined to please after his earlier faux pas. The kid was the only one of them not packing a sidearm.

The ceiling creaked and groaned above them, and Dom looked up, unnerved. "Man, this place is creepy," he said. At least they hadn't found any bodies--yet. The stench of burnt, decomposing human flesh hadn't assaulted his sinuses in years, and he'd like to keep it that way.

Marcus made for the stairwell leading out of the basement, soon disappearing behind an orange pipe large enough to fit a grown man inside. Coolant pipes, Baird had said when they came down. "Let's keep moving. It's going to take a long time to sweep this whole place for hazards. Better to get it done before dark."

"10-4, boss man," Cole said, moving to follow in Marcus's footsteps, his flashlight finding each shadowed corner ahead.

With Wes Kendall ahead of them, Dom and Baird brought up the rear, walking side-by-side.

"Why isn't COG Engineering Corp doing this job?" Baird asked. The two of them naturally fell into field-march sweeps, Dom checking his side for enemy contacts, and Baird checking his. It almost felt like being back in the COG. "Seriously, it would take work, but I think this place could be salvaged--for a few years anyway."

"It's technically a private facility," Dom said, but he agreed. This place could be a government asset, and it would be a way better idea to send a bunch of Gears in here loaded for bear than to assign the job to a private demo company.

Baird grunted. "Yeah, you think any of the executives survived the war? Who owns a company when the entire board and all the stockholders are dead?"

"Maybe they found some janitor who worked here, assigned him ownership."

"I can see that. Here you go, buddy. Here's a formerly multi-million dollar company. Now, could you write us a check so we can blow up one of your drilling platforms?"

Dom shook his head. "It's going to be a long time before the private sector starts playing by the rules, but what're you going to do? COG doesn't have the man-power to regulate everything yet."

"Just the things they want to," Baird muttered. "The annoying shit, like rations and copper wire and condoms."

"You seeing a lot of action these days with that copper wire/condom power combo, Baird?" Cole called back, chuckling.

Damon grumbled a few choice words under his breath. "More than you're getting," he called back. "You washed-up jock."

Dom scoffed, rolling his eyes. He'd known both these guys a long time. Baird was always at home fiddling with _something_ in his spare time, and the closest thing he had to nightly rendezvous were trips to the junk yard, stripping the guts out of discarded COG vehicles, bots, whatever. He'd found the burnt-out skeleton of a Centaur there once, and they hardly saw him for a week.

"What?" Baird asked, almost challenging Dom to refute his claim.

"I'm trying to imagine you getting propositioned more than Cole and I keep hitting a wall."

"Well, what can I say? Chicks dig the goggles," Baird insisted sardonically, but he didn't press it. This more than anything made Dom wonder if there was any truth to Damon's claims. Typically he got all defensive over being at a disadvantage to a teammate in any category he deemed worth judging. Then again, perhaps Baird was disgusted with the game.

Dating wasn't what it used to be. These days relationships typically started with conceiving kids, and then in a few rare cases evolved into something real. Most available women were pushing hard for marriage, and when they didn't get what they wanted, it usually got ugly. It was a major turnoff for Dom, and perhaps Baird felt the same way--for different reasons.

_He's not the type to settle down. He's like a kid. Give him the world's biggest Erector Set and get the hell out of his way._

Dom didn't even want to imagine what happened when Baird got his hands on his first chemistry set, assuming he ever had one. Dom didn't know the finer details of Damon's past, but from what he'd pieced together, he had a feeling it had been a strange parody of Marcus's childhood.

Marcus was a practical genius born to academic brainiac parents; they loved him, but never understood him, never considered for a second they should bend their lives to suit the needs of their child. Baird, on the other hand, came from a blue collar household where lowbrow was the currency. There was no encouragement of learning or self-improvement. Growing up, Damon's intelligence was both his curse and his saving grace. He never fit in with his family. Trading barbs was the equivalent of affection, and Baird had switched often between seeing his talent as shameful and lording it over the household. Most weekends, the rest of his family went out to parties while Baird tinkered with projects in the garage. When his family's spare cash got pissed away, it was Damon who fixed the car when it broke down. Much of his learning had come from such forced projects.

Damon wasn't lucky like Marcus. Marcus found Carlos and Dom when he was ten, and the Santiago family did their best to fix him. No one had ever made an attempt to fix Baird. If anything, the people who should've cared about him did their level best to break him down, so he wouldn't make them look bad. At least in the COG he'd found appreciation for what he could do.

Up ahead, Marcus and Cole started up the stairs, and then abruptly stopped.

"_Shit!_" Marcus growled. "Baird, get up here."

With a hesitant glance at Dom, Baird popped the strap holding his sidearm in the holster, then he jogged up the stairs, his hand never leaving the still-holstered stock.

"What's going on?" Dom asked.

"Door's locked," Cole called back. "We left it propped open, and now it's closed. Won't budge."

With trepidation, Dom asked the obvious question. "Do you think it could've been an accident? Maybe the wedge came loose?"

"Not fucking likely," Marcus grunted. "Someone locked us in."

"Yep," Dom said to himself. He let out a big sigh and found a sturdy beam to lean against. It was a smoke 'em if you've got 'em moment, and Dom didn't smoke. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

* * *

_AN: Introducing new male characters is hard, especially when they compete with Delta for screen time. Right now I feel Wes is kind of a washed out character, or maybe just a kid out of his depth? Let me know what you think. I'm not sure yet if I actually want him to be liked..._

_AN2: If anyone has information about Baird's background, please let me know. I've found a scene in the second novel where Cole says something to the effect of: 'When Baird talks about his family, it's like a history lesson. His family did one thing, and he did something else. He remembers the things he built most fondly.' That's all I can find, so if there's more elsewhere a page reference would be REALLY helpful (I've seriously scoured the books). I've been told there MIGHT be something about Baird's family having money and forcing him to enlist in order to get his inheritance--would be good to know for sure ;-)  
_


	11. Chapter 11

_AN: Thanks to everyone who helped me figure out what exactly is canon for Baird. You were all very helpful, and I really appreciated it. According to Jacinto's Remnant, Baird enlisted because his dad threatened to take away his inheritance--and that's about all we get. Personally, I feel that having Baird be a genius rich kid with parents who were distant and didn't understand him is WAY too similar to Marcus's story, so I guess I'll be sticking with my alternate universe back story for him. I have a feeling the people in charge of Baird's character development will actually give his past some real thought one day, and they'll probably come up with a more believable scenario, disregarding some of the current canon that doesn't make a lot of sense._

_Besides--in my humble opinion, if Baird's dad said 'Enlist or we'll write you out of the will,' Baird would've responded by flipping him the bird and walking out the door. Damon Baird strikes me as the kind of guy who knows exactly how much his skills are worth. He could've easily made his own fortune.  
_

* * *

Baird jogged up the steps, the light from his flashlight bobbing up and down. "Let me see it," he said when he reached the top of the staircase, and it was mildly entertaining, watching Marcus and Cole try to suck in their bulk on the narrow stairwell so Damon could get to the locking mechanism.

Dom heard some mild cursing from Baird, but that didn't worry him. As long as Baird cursed to himself and didn't bitch at anyone else, that meant everything was kosher. If they were fucked, he'd tell them so in no uncertain terms. In seconds Baird had Cole holding two flashlights for him, and Marcus kneeling beside him, holding the unrolled canvas tool organizer that he carried everywhere. Maybe it was a testament to his faith in Baird's abilities, but Dom firmly believed they would walk out of that basement in a few minutes. What they would find on the other side--that was more concerning. Someone must've wanted to bury them down here.

Wes lounged at the base of the stairs, shifting from foot to foot, as if waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Dom walked up beside him, still scanning their surroundings with his flashlight. The basement was huge, and Dom had met a few too many terrifying things in the dark to get lazy keeping watch. "Hey, don't worry. Baird talks a lot, but he's solid. He'll get us out."

Wes shrugged one shoulder. "We should've left a guy up there to watch, I guess."

"Marcus probably kept us together because we're not very well armed." Even as he said it, Dom could almost see Wes's fingers itching to run over the trigger guard of a rifle. He definitely could relate to that feeling. "It's rough being a civvie, huh?"

"Man, if it were up to me, I'd still be in," Wes said.

"You and me both, man." It seemed like the thing to say in the moment, but then Dom wondered why Wes had been forced out. A guy his age typically stayed in unless he suffered an injury. Wes appeared spry enough. He started to ask, but aborted at the last second.

_Maybe the kid's got flat feet. They'll kick you out for anything these days. Mind your own business._

The question abated to the back of his mind, but Dom had a feeling it would resurface unless he got an answer.

At the top of the stairs there was some quiet commotion and the flashlights all flicked off. Dom's hearing wasn't as good as it used to be--he'd never been very diligent with his hearing protection in firefights--but he could hear Baird's faint whisper as he counted down, and then threw his shoulder against the door, forcing it open and doing a sweep of the area outside with the muzzle of his firearm from a low crouch. Standing over him, Marcus did the same.

"Clear," Marcus called back. "Move fast. We're getting out of here, right now."

Pushing Wes ahead, Dom cleared his holster, keeping the muzzle down and gripping the rail with one hand. The sooner they got outside, the better he would feel. There was no way Dom had survived the war only to die in some hole in the ground, killed by a fellow human being.

Upstairs, they went single file, Marcus taking point. Cole fell back to support Dom at the rear of the line, and they moved out of the main stairwell and into the hallway beyond, taking it one corner at a time, staying a text-book eighteen inches off wall in case anyone started shooting at them. Bullets tended to follow walls. Sticking too close increased the risk of getting hit by a ricochet.

They made it back to the main doors, and Marcus leaned to gaze out the window, looking around.

"They out there?" Baird asked.

"Five of them, with hammerbursts. They're stripping down the trucks. Doesn't look like they're in any hurry, so they probably didn't think we'd get out this quick--if ever."

Baird cursed a blue streak. His truck was his baby. "Shit, man. I told you I should've stayed behind!"

"Why?" Marcus asked, turning those light blue eyes on the blond man behind him. He had his eerie, no-emotion face on. "So they could've caught you sleeping and put a bullet in your head?"

Baird started to open his mouth, and then shut it. Marcus could've left his grumpy ass in the truck, knowing he would eventually doze off. He could be dead now. This didn't seem to be lost on Baird, but it didn't make him any less surly.

"Shit, come on then," he said, turning on his heel and marching straight back into the facility.

"Where you going, baby?" Cole called after his retreating back.

"You assholes don't keep me around for my boyish good looks or my dashing charm, do you?"

Wes glanced at Dom, who shook his head in negation. No, they definitely _did not _keep Baird around for those reasons.

Marcus blew out a sigh. "Cole, Kendall, go with Baird. We'll humor him--for now," he decided. "Dom, you're with me. We're going to scout around, see if we can flank them. Cole, keep us up to date and..." Marcus sighed. "Shit, if you can, keep him out of trouble."

Dom scoffed. "Good luck," he muttered. Baird was in one of his moods. Usually he was pretty good at self-preservation, but sometimes when he got pissed off he'd charge things without thinking very hard about it.

"No problem, boss man. Come on, kid. Let's go." Cole trotted after Baird, Wes Kendall right behind him.

Marcus motioned with his head. "Come on. There's another exit this way."

Dom followed after his friend. It never failed to surprise him, the way Marcus could take one look at a piece of paper and remember it forever--even complex blue prints. Damn lucky he could, though.

* * *

"Where you at, Baird?" Marcus asked, keeping his voice down, one finger on his earpiece. He and Dom were sitting on hard packed earth, their backs pressed against an enormous fallen tree trunk that had come to rest at the very top of a wooded ridge. Their vantage point very conveniently overlooked the driveway and the trucks. They'd made a wide circuit of the Stranded stripping down their vehicles, determining there were no more keeping watch. Currently the five men were considering how to open or move the heavy steel boxes with the words 'Danger, Explosives' on them. They had no idea those boxes were empty today.

"Why don't they just drive off with the trucks?" Dom asked, sliding up just enough to glance over the top of the log. Most of the bark had long ago sluffed off the tree in large sections, like a snakeskin. The smooth cork-colored wood beneath had dried and hardened over the years. Hopefully hardened enough to stop bullets.

Marcus shrugged. "Maybe they figure they're lo-jacked," he said. "Or maybe they're as bad at hot wiring as I am." He tried again to raise Baird on the comm line. It was Cole who finally answered.

"Cole here, boss man," he said.

"Cole, we've confirmed a total of five hostiles. We've flanked to higher ground west of the vehicles, but we're going to need head-on fire to overtake them. Is Baird finished?"

Dom heard what sounded like wood splintering, like a door getting kicked in. Then it sounded like Cole was hustling up a flight of stairs. "We're ready to go, we just gotta get in position."

"Roger that, Cole. What's the plan?"

Cole chuckled. "Oh, you'll see. You two pick your shots and get ready to fire."

Marcus glanced at Dom, who shrugged. Who knew what those two had come up with?

"Wilco. We'll fire on your signal. Fenix out."

"What do you think they've got planned?"

"I don't know, but Baird was pretty hacked off. He gets creative when he's angry." Marcus scanned their choice of targets the same way anyone else would scan a selection of turkeys at the supermarket. "Who do you like?" he asked.

_Great, now we're head shopping._

Dom considered his options. The three men crawling on Baird's truck would be easier to hit from the refinery where Cole and Baird were taking cover. Dom and Marcus had a better angle on the two men trying to break into the safe loaded onto the company truck. Regardless of shot difficulty, these Stranded would all die. Every man in Delta could bulls-eye a pimple on a brumak's ass from seventy yards with a snub pistol and twenty year old ammo. It was a matter of choosing one with a forgettable face, so maybe someday Dom wouldn't recognize the bastard in his nightmares.

"I like that guy," Dom finally determined, indicating a short squat guy trying to jam a crowbar into the small crack between the safe door and frame. He wasn't having much luck, and the fact that the sun shone brightly on his bald head made it an inviting target.

"All right, I'll pick off the other one. When they're down, kill anyone left standing."

"Yeah, sure."

"Be careful of branches when you shoot. We aren't going to get a lot of good firing lanes." Marcus was right, of course. Fortunately it was still early spring, and the forest hadn't begun to bloom yet. From their position, it would've been impossible to get a decent line of sight through a full green canopy.

"You guys ready?" Baird asked over the comm.

"What's your field of fire, Baird? We're assuming you'll pick off the assholes on your truck."

"That's the plan. And all of you be warned: the unfortunate bastard who puts a bullet hole in my truck _will_ suffocate in his sleep tonight."

Cole laughed. "How you gonna know who did it, baby?"

"Oh, I'll _know_. Baird out."

The comm went dead after that.

Dom opened his mouth, and then hesitated. Glancing over, he saw Marcus with a bemused expression on his face. "You're thinking about it, aren't you? You're thinking, just one window... He'll never know it was me."

Marcus seemed to mull it over. "He did give us a ride to work this morning."

"Oh, come on, man. Mentioning it like that; it's like he dared us to do it."

"It was pretty nice, waking up to the smell of eggs, pancakes..." Marcus was toying with him now, playing devil's advocate and tugging on the strings of his conscience. Baird had the equivalent of a BS in pushing Dom's buttons, but Marcus held a Ph.D. in the subject--he just tended to use his powers for good, where Baird used his to annoy.

Dom pointed an accusing finger at him. "Stop making it seem like I'm the only asshole who thinks about doing these terrible things!" he hissed.

"Besides, our drill instructors taught us to how to aim. We should do them proud, right? Seeing as they're all dead..."

"I had Mataki for commando training. She's not dead."

"There's a difference. Mataki wasn't the sort of instructor who made you want her dead," Marcus said dryly.

Dom couldn't argue with that. When he went to boot camp, the lead DI was an insatiable dick. More than one guy in his class would've loved to insert something sharp between his ribs.

"I could just say I missed."

"Yeah, that'd work--if Baird didn't know _exactly_ how good of a shot you are."

"Maybe I'm rusty."

"Roll with that," Marcus advised sagely. "See where it gets you."

"You know I'm not going to do it. I just want you to admit you were thinking about it too!"

"Fine," Marcus did his almost-smile, where the lines faded around his eyes and he managed to look faintly amused. "I was thinking about it too. You happy now?"

Dom smiled at his tiny victory. "Yes, that does make me happy." He would've added that lately--as in, over the past six months to a year--Marcus had seemed more like himself. Like the Marcus he knew before the Slab, and sometimes even before E-day. Flashes of dry humor had begun to appear where before there'd only been sullen gloom and distant brooding. Dom would've mentioned it, but he was afraid if he did, recovering Marcus would vanish again.

For a long time he'd been sure there would be no healing for his friend. Marcus still wouldn't talk about his time in prison, or about Anya. But maybe time was finally sewing shut a few of those old war wounds.

He glanced up once again to check on his target's progress at cracking the safe. Baldy had put down the crow bar and moved on to a more advanced tool--a drill. "Oh, look," Dom said, patronizing. "They're evolving so quickly."

"Yeah, they are. Baird's going to be pissed when he finds his drill bits ground down to nubs."

The comm crackled. "Remember, don't look directly into the light," Baird instructed cryptically.

A loud thud near the compound caught Dom's attention. He averted his eyes just in time, because the concussion thundered like artillery, and the flash that came before it was blinding--like looking directly into the sun at noon, if the distance between the sun and Sera were halved.

The Stranded were knocked stupid for an instant. More than long enough for Dom and Marcus to take aim over the top of the tree trunk and open fire. Dom put two rounds in the chest of his target, squeezing the trigger with the very tip of his index finger so each shot was crisp, like breaking glass.

The man staggered, fumbling to drop the drill and grabbing for the wheel well. He fell onto his ass, his face spattered with his own blood and twisted into an ugly mask of shock and horror. The man glanced up hill, and for a second it seemed his eyes found Dom, meeting his gaze. Without blinking, Dom set his sights on the man's bald temple, applying pressure and allowing the shot to take him by surprise. It really was disturbing, how much easier it was to kill a human than a grub. It was physically easier, but not mentally--not by a long shot.

For one terrible instant, Dom relived every single instance when he'd felt a bullet brush past within inches of him. Any one of them could've taken his life, and yet he'd escaped the war virtually unmarked on the outside.

All other sounds and feelings got shut out while he fired, but after Baldy's brains sprayed out the back of his skull in a fine pink mist, Dom heard Marcus's last shot like cannon fire next to his right ear.

Four targets went down immediately, but the fifth man unaccounted for in their targeting scheme made a dash for it, hitting the tree-line at full-tilt.

"We've lost line of sight on target five," Marcus said into the comm. "You guys got anything?"

"Negative from the roof, boss man. He gone."

"Negative from ground level. Shit, kid, wait! What the fuck are you doing? Get back here!" Baird cursed. "Shit, Fenix. The kid just took off. He's chasing the guy into the woods on foot, unarmed. Don't know what the hell he's thinking."

"Shit," Marcus said, repeating the sentiment. "Damn pain in the ass. All right, Delta. Let's check the men we downed, make sure they're dead. If the kid doesn't come back on his own, we'll go after him then. Understood?"

"Wilco," Baird and Cole responded almost at the same time. The comm went silent once again.

Marcus rose from his crouch, using one hand to lever himself as he hopped over the gigantic tree trunk. Dom followed suit, trying to crunch as softly as possible through the thick bedding of dried leaves on his way down the hill. This was so frustrating. They should've gotten into the trucks and hauled ass out of there. Their fire could've attracted no end of unwanted attention, and without the element of surprise, automatic rifles almost always trumped pistols.

The two of them approached the trucks cautiously, keeping an eye on the men they'd hopefully killed quickly while keeping an ear to their surroundings. Cole and Baird approached from the front in much the same way. As they got closer, the tang of spilled blood floated to them on the breeze. It was such a shame, ruining a beautiful day with bloodshed.

"Man, maybe we should've called out to them first. Might've scared them off," Dom said morosely.

Marcus only shook his head. "We weren't well enough armed to take the chance." Keeping his pistol ready, Marcus hopped onto the back of the truck, straddling the tailgate. "Clear over here," he said, prodding the bodies with his boot.

"Clear over here, except for all my stuff getting tossed," Baird grumbled, bending over to pick up scattered tools and various other items with his free left hand. He threw them into the truck bed in no particular order. Later his OCD would take over and he'd have to organize everything. "Come on, Cole. Help me drag these bodies out."

"Hey, Baird. How the hell did you make a flash-bang that big?" Dom asked.

Damon scoffed. "Explaining would be a waste of breath. Go back to high school and finish the basic chem classes you skipped, Dropout." It wasn't uncommon for Damon to pick at Dom's lack of formal education. Dom was the only one in the group who hadn't finished high school. He'd dropped out willingly at sixteen to enlist and support his new wife and baby. The war robbed Baird of attaining higher education, and from time to time he feigned bitterness.

Dom could just imagine the sort of student Baird would've made. He could imagine Damon falling asleep in the back row. He could also imagine him walking up front and snatching the chalk from some professor, then redrawing all diagrams to perfect correctness while berating everyone in the room, including the professor, for not catching any mistakes sooner. Then, just to throw gas on the fire, he'd finish by pulling his goggles down over his eyes and just staring at the prof, throwing the man off balance first with flawless logic and then with trite absurdity.

"Hey, Damon. If I ever do go back to high school, should I sign you up for charm classes while I'm at it?"

Baird shrugged, picking up some piece of electrical equipment with the guts hanging out by the wires. He shook his head morosely at the loss, and tossed it in with the rest of his stuff. "Charm school," he grumbled. "Shit, why not? We'll call it a date."

"Study partners, huh?"

"Yeah, sure."

Dom chuckled, assisting with the cleanup. "You promise?"

"Fuck it, there's no hope for me," Baird said, tossing a can of WD-40. It bounced on the very top of the tailgate before falling in.

Hammerburst shots rang out in the distance, sending the four of them to scrambling for cover. There was one more shot, screaming, and then silence.

"Do you think they killed Wes?" Dom asked, peering toward the woods around the bumper he'd crouched behind. Marcus was next to him. Baird and Cole were behind the other truck.

"Yes, I think they fucking killed him. Can we get the hell out of here now?" Baird hissed.

"We're not leaving him," Marcus said--although he sounded half tempted. "Check your ammo and grab the rifles off those bodies. We're going to sweep his trail, see if we can find him."

"Damn it. I knew you were going to say that," Baird grumbled, but he'd already slid out the magazine on his pistol, digging in the pouch on his hip for a fresh clip.

Cole had dragged the two bodies off Baird's truck, and leaning over them he whipped out a pocket knife, cutting through the straps on the hammer bursts and quickly freeing them from their former owners. Marcus started to do the same with the other two bodies.

Locked and loaded with automatic weapons, they headed into the woods. Dom fully expected an ambush. They all did, but they formed up, kept to cover and kept their eyes open.

"It'd be nice to have Mataki along," Cole breathed at one point after a large black crow in the trees nearly scared the shit out of all of them.

None of them disagreed. Not even Baird had a snarky comment to share.

The search was anti-climatic. When they got close enough, Wes called out to them. He was laying on his back next to the dead Stranded, a bloody combat knife in his hand--apparently the weapon he'd used to put down his opponent. The combat knife was standard COG issue. Dom didn't remember seeing it on the kid, but such knives could easily be concealed at the waist-line or in a boot.

Wes had been shot at least once in the torso--although it seemed like it had missed his lungs and heart. He definitely looked like he hurt, but he didn't look like he was dying.

"Shit, boy," Cole marveled. "You brought a knife to a gun fight and actually lived. That's gotta be a first." The way Cole said it was not complimentary.

"It's not deep. Just a ricochet," the kid said, his right hand covering the blood stain originating over his left shoulder. The knife fell from his loose fingers. Blood had sprayed over his face and clothing, a light spattering some places and thick lines in others, but that probably came from the Stranded he'd stabbed to death.

"You're damn lucky if that's all it is," Marcus growled, taking a knee beside him, steel flashing in his eyes. "Let me tell you something, Kendall. If you'd pulled that stunt with any other crew, they would've left you here to die."

"I couldn't let him get back and tell his friends about us."

"Who cares if he did?" Marcus asked, laying some much-needed wisdom on the boy. "We would've been long gone before they got back," he said, and held up one index finger. "I have a one fuck-up rule. If you _ever_ put my guys in danger again, I will leave you. Understand?" He threw all the Marcus Fenix gruffness he could muster behind the threat, and it sounded very convincing but Dom saw through it. Marcus wasn't Hoffman. He'd made mistakes that cost lives, and when Hoffman pardoned all the other prisoners in the Slab, only Marcus was left to die--left defenseless in a dark hole in the ground with no hope for escape.

Marcus would _neve_r leave a man behind, regardless of stupidity, but the kid seemed to believe it. Wes nodded, his eyes downcast.

_That's right, you should be ashamed of yourself,_ Dom thought.

Dom and Marcus helped Kendall up, and started the slow limp back toward the trucks with Cole taking point. Glancing behind him, Dom saw Baird crouched next to the Stranded body, one elbow on his knee while he examined it intently. That was weird. Usually Baird never gave Stranded the time of day, alive or dead.

"Hey, man. You coming?" Dom called.

Instead of answering, Baird got to his feet, collecting the dead man's hammerburst and all the ammo he had on him. Then he started following after them. He didn't say anything at all, which was even weirder.

_Well, maybe he's growing up a little. We've all been out of the killing business for a long time. _

"Where we going to take him?" Dom asked, referring to Wes.

Marcus shrugged one shoulder. "Do we not have a former medic for a roommate?"

"We do. However, I think she would tell us to take him to a hospital."

"I would take him to the hospital," Marcus said. "If I wanted him dead..."


	12. Chapter 12

The door of Chelsea's office banged open right in the middle of her lunch break, revealing Marcus dragging a much younger man covered in blood, his good arm slung across the sergeant's broad shoulders. Long finished with her sandwich, Chelsea had been sitting quietly, daydreaming and doodling on her notebook while waiting for her next appointment. At seeing them, she immediately got to her feet and rushed over.

"What happened?" she asked, analyzing the young man's condition. He was approximately her age, with light brown hair and brown eyes. He might've been attractive if not for the dark circles under his eyes and his sickly gray pallor. He was damp with sweat, and when Chelsea placed two fingers against his neck she found his skin clammy to the touch. His pulse was rapid, but not terribly weak. He was definitely lethargic, but conscious and aware.

"Are you my doctor?" he asked, huffing like he had an elephant sitting on his chest.

Standing him upright wasn't easing the pressure on his airway. She needed to either transport him to help or lay him down. "I'm the first stop on your way to a doctor," she said, checking his eyes and tilting his head back so she could look at the back of his throat, encouraged when she didn't find any streaks of blood or red foam. There didn't seem to be any blood coming up from his lungs, so perhaps it was just a shoulder wound. She'd need to listen to his chest, and he would need a real doctor soon.

"Well, I could do worse," he said, giving her a wane smile. If it weren't so pathetic, his attempt at flirtation would be comical.

Marcus abruptly shifted the arm he'd wrapped around the kid's waist, drawing a gasp of pain from him. "He got shot by Stranded. Hammerburst ricochet, about an hour ago. We've got the bleeding under control and he's kept down small amounts of fluids."

She didn't have an enormous wealth of experience to draw from, but at first brush she'd guess this kid would make it. The COG trained her to do triage, and that meant assessing all potential patients. Her initial diagnostic duty fulfilled, she shifted her attention to the rest of them. Her fingertips found Marcus's sternum. "Are you hurt?" she asked, her eyes appraising his solid form for injury, and detecting none.

"I'm fine."

Her other hand found Cole's massive bicep, and her eyes asked the same question, relieved when he shook his head. He wasn't hurt either. Then Cole's enormous form moved aside and revealed...empty space.

Icy dread crawled from the pit of her stomach, and the freezing, searing pain stopped all movement in her chest. She couldn't think or breathe, her heart stopped beating, balanced in a moment of perfect stillness before unbearable agony. Without realizing it might be there, she suddenly found herself leaning too far forward over grief's ledge, with no recourse left but to fall. "Where are they?" she whispered. Her eyes flicking up and down the hall, searching for them.

Marcus laid a hand on her back, directly between her shoulder blades. She jumped, startled. "Hey, look at me," he said. He gave her a little shake.

It was hard to focus on him. She hadn't realized how close she'd come to shut-down panic until his voice snapped her back to the present.

"They're okay. Baird's down the street, hosing down the trucks. Dom's grabbing the medical kit from the main office downstairs."

Chelsea allowed herself one deep, calming breath, and then threw herself into officer mode, tossing out orders and acting like she knew it all, even when she didn't. "Get him inside and lay him down on the floor next to my chair so we can put his feet up. Cole, I need blankets or something to cover him with. If he gets shocky we're going to need to keep him warm."

"Yes, ma'am," Cole responded, double-timing it down the hall in compliance with her orders. He acted like she was his CO. It was reassuring, knowing he had so much faith in her, and a bit intoxicating. Even in the COG, she'd never had someone like Cole snap-to on her orders. She hoped she could live up to it.

Suddenly she realized everyone was moving except her, and Chelsea shook herself out of her momentary stupor. Something deep inside her wanted to pause and reflect on what had just happened to her, but she denied it, afraid of what she might discover. Coming to terms with the fact that she'd already formed connections with these men, reciprocated or not, could send her back into panic.

Her psyche was like a levee--built to repel waves of grief of a manageable size. For a long time now, the waves pounding against her had played by the rules, never coming in too big or too fast. It was disturbing to get a glimpse of the damage she'd endure if she lost them. Considering the length of time she'd known them, such deep seated attachment seemed impossible. If it was already this bad, how much worse would it get over time?

And it wasn't just Dom. She'd gotten attached to all of them, already. She'd never meant for that to happen and it scared the fuck out of her. Her heart and soul had shattered so many times in the past, and after spending so much time picking up the pieces, she'd thought she knew herself well enough to not let this happen. When her brother Eric died, it had broken her, but in the midst of her grief a gruesome thought had surfaced. Finally she could quit worrying. Finally there were no more men in her life who could get torn violently away. They were all at peace, in a better place.

Could she bear suffering through that again?

Chelsea stuck close to her patient as Marcus hauled him to the center of the room. She helped ease his transition to the floor. "What's your name?" she asked softly, pulling the cushion off her chair seat and folding it in half. She arranged his feet on the cushion, raised approximately a foot off the floor per recommendation for treating victims of shock.

"My name's Wes Kendall," the man said, the corner of his mouth ticking up. He didn't look like he should've been in any shape to smile, and Chelsea couldn't help giving him points for trying anyway. Damn these Gears were tough. "Do they call you Doc?"

"Depends on who you ask," she said, moving to his side on her knees. "Around here, most people call me 'that damn shrink,'" she teased, checking the pulse points along Wes's arm. "I'm checking your blood flow, and it seems good. Hopefully that means no arteries were nicked or cut. Do you feel any tingling in your fingers?"

"No, but my shoulder hurts like hell."

"Can you feel this?" Chelsea asked, pinching one of his fingertips.

"Yeah, I feel it. So, can you pull this thing out of me?" Wes asked. He sounded a bit loopy.

She took a peek at the very edge of the thick pad of white bandages on his shoulder. She found rust-colored blood, dry. Nothing fresh and dark. The only blood on the top of the pad was in the outline of a huge hand print where one of the guys had kept pressure on the wound during the journey. The packing was wrapped neatly, tight enough to stay put but not too tight.

"Who wrapped this?" she asked.

Marcus had taken a knee on the other side of Wes, stoic and apparently deep in thought. At first she thought he didn't hear her, but before she could repeat the question, he answered, "Dom and Cole worked on him on the way back."

"They did a good job."

Marcus grunted. "We've all had a lot of practice. Unfortunately."

She had no doubt that was true. "Has he had any pain medication?" she asked.

Marcus shook his head.

"Can you take it out?" Wes asked, repeating the question.

Chelsea reflected for a minute before committing to respond. "Well, Wes, the issue is in the physics. It's very possible the bullet hit bone and shattered. There could be splinters everywhere, and if I go digging after them it's going to cause you a lot of pain, and if I fuck up, it could kill you," she said, squeezing his hand in an attempt to reassure him. Regardless of what happened, she would try to stay with him.

"I don't think it shattered. It feels like it's just under the skin, in the meat," he argued, the words coming in labored bursts. "It clipped a tree before it hit me."

She shook her head sadly. "It's never that simple. I can do the initial exam and stabilize your arm to decrease pain from movement, but we need to get you to a hospital."

"Chelsea," Marcus said, motioning with his head toward the far side of the room. He rose to his feet, and she followed, only releasing Wes's hand after reassuring him she'd be right back.

When they were out of earshot, she whispered harshly, "Why did you bring him here? He belongs in an ER."

Marcus didn't get defensive at the accusation. Instead he sighed, his lack of reaction doing more to diffuse her offensive than words could. She'd have to remember how he did that. It was a defensive maneuver--subtle, placating. She wondered if he knew how well he executed it. No one would ever expect subtle from Marcus, but whether he knew it or not, he did it well. "Have you been to a hospital lately?" he asked. "A private hospital?"

What the hell did that have to do with anything? She'd worked in the medical field, and she knew Wes needed a real doctor. "No. I work sometimes at the free clinic, but we're not equipped to be an emergency room. They're lucky to be staffed at all..."

"There are rats in the hospitals. Big ones--almost as long as my forearm."

She couldn't help glancing down, her eyes measuring the distance between Marcus's wrist and elbow for size reference. She shuddered. It was disturbing to think any rodent that large might exist.

"Not only are there rats, there's cockroaches. There's a constant flood of patients, injured and diseased crammed into way too small a space. They don't even have the resources to wash the bedding between uses. Days off are non-existent. Everyone's overtaxed on time, sleep, and patience, and there's virtually no oversight. No one's sitting there making sure the equipment gets sterilized. It's not like the COG. There's no accountability. If we took him there for a cold, it'd still be fifty-fifty he'd die of a staph infection."

"So you want me to do this? Here? Now?" She really needed him to repeat it at least one more time. It wasn't a purely insane idea. She did receive training on basic extraction procedures, training every waking moment on cadavers. She had dug bullets out of living young men before, but most of them were riddled with holes. Real doctors and surgeons treated the men with a chance to be saved. Medics were only allowed to carve on the ones who would've died anyway, and even then only as assistants to interns.

She'd helped save one man out of dozens, but he probably never walked again.

"Bender doesn't keep a nurse on hand, but the medical kit's well stocked. We'll get you whatever you need. Local anesthetic, sterile bandages and sheets, antibiotics, whatever. I'll have Baird learn to do needle point if that's what it takes, but the kid's better off in your hands than stepping foot in any emergency room in this city."

"Would you make the same choice if it were you laying there?" she asked.

"In a heart beat," he said without pause, like he really meant it.

Touche, but Chelsea had this inkling that Marcus didn't fear dying. "What if it were _Dom_ laying there?"

There was a pause, but Marcus used it to pin her with an '_are you kidding?' _expression. "Stay with the kid. I'll go see what's keeping Dom with the medical kit." He nudged her in passing. "Hey, you'll be fine," he said, then left her there alone.

_Well, at least he's sure,_ she intoned, her fingers interlacing at the back of her head. She took a deep breath through her nose, letting it out slowly. Her heart raced with fear, and the thrill of a challenge. _Because I'm definitely not._

* * *

  
Lugging the over-sized medical kit up the stairs toward Chelsea's office, Dom met Marcus coming down the staircase, minus Wes Kendall.

"You find her?" Dom asked. The question was almost rhetorical. Where else would she be, besides in her office?

"Found her," Marcus said, stepping onto the same landing as Dom and off to the side, so a crew coming down the steps behind him could easily pass by. He scratched absently at an itch on his forehead, just below his bandanna. "It occurs to me she may need to be excused from shrink duty for the afternoon."

Dom waved off that concern. "I ran into Richtner. He's going to call the crew she'd scheduled to meet with today and keep them on task so Chelsea can take care of Kendall. That's the good news. The bad news is he wants to talk to us in his office. All of us, even Baird. Right now."

Marcus made a non-committal sound at the back of his throat. He always acted like a buffer between Richtner and the crew. As their sergeant, he'd played the same role in the COG. Everything came down through him. Orders, praise and, most importantly, criticism. In the middle, Marcus had the most control. He knew his men, and he knew his superiors; handling each appropriately. Removing that buffer was like throwing matches directly on the dynamite without using a fuse, and Richtner calling them all in like this had to dig at him.

"He seem like he's in a head-hunting mood?" Marcus asked.

"When I told him what happened, for a minute his face turned so purple I had high hopes he'd have a stroke and keel over. Unfortunately he's still alive, and he still wants to chew us out--I mean, hear our 'report' of what happened," Dom said, using air quotes to emphasize how much of a joke their _report_ would be.

"Baird's not going to take that very well."

"Baird might be holding _me_ back this time," Dom said, pointing his thumb at his own chest. "This is bullshit, Marcus! They send us out to these places unarmed, and then act like it's our fault when shit goes wrong? We could _still_ be in that basement right now. No one would've come for us."

Marcus held up a hand, moving them both closer to the wall, as if angling their conversation further from the staircase and away from anyone who might be listening above or below. "Hey, I get it," he said, voice low. "It's bullshit. But no matter what happens in that office today, I need you to hold it together. If you guys stay calm, I'll have the high ground. If _you_ start to lose it, Baird's going to lose it, and then we'll really be fucked."

_And then we'll be unemployed,_ Dom thought. Richtner loved taking credit for Marcus's success rate, but he had to feel threatened by it too. What if upper management figured out that his job was more of a formality than anything? What if they figured out that Marcus could do his own job and Richtner's without breaking a sweat?

Still waiting for his answer, Marcus shifted slowly from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable. Out of all of them, Dom was the least likely to receive a rebuke from the sergeant. They'd seen too much shit together. Usually he could read Marcus well enough to avoid making a reprimand necessary, and Marcus wasn't the sort of NCO who got his rocks off on ordering people around. He didn't like asking favors either, not even of his best friend._  
_  
Even during childhood, Dom always hoped Marcus would learn to come to him or Carlos when he needed something. Or hell, even to Anya. He never did. At this point, he probably never would. _Like it or not, we're getting to be the old dogs in a world full of kids. Good luck teaching us new tricks. _

Cramming his rage down into the deepest, darkest corner he could find, and then stomping on it until it relented and stayed put, Dom forced himself to let go of it, but damn was it hard. Sometimes he just wanted to knock the crap out of some of these people, and on days like this he had a hard time finding reasons to refrain. When he visibly relaxed, Marcus stepped back to give him more space. "All right, man. You lead the way. I'll back you up. Whatever you need."

Marcus nodded, giving him an appreciative pat on the shoulder, which might've been Marcus-speak for _knew I could count on you._ "I'll take the kit upstairs. I'll be down once I get our medic squared away."

Dom gladly handed the heavy kit over, shaking out his hand. There were angry red welts below the second knuckle on every finger, where the plastic handle had dug into flesh. "Wait, you actually talked her into digging out the bullet? By herself?" After saying it, Dom realized it shouldn't surprise him. When he tried, Marcus could talk just about anyone into doing whatever he wanted.

"She's not very happy about it," Marcus replied, dropping to a knee and flipping the clasps on the kit so he could check the contents. "Doubt I'll be her favorite person by the end of the day."

"Heh. Yeah, you sound real broken up about that. So, has she ever done anything like this before?"

"Don't know if she's done it on anyone _living_," he said slowly, referring to the cadaver portion of medic training. During the war there would've been plenty of bodies to practice on. "First time for everything, I guess."

"And what happens if she kills him?"

Marcus shrugged one shoulder, and having found the kit stocked to his satisfaction, closed it up tight once again. "I think she can do it," he said. It sounded casual, but Dom knew Marcus. He didn't give a vote of confidence lightly.

Marcus jerked his head toward the stairs. "You go find Baird," he instructed. "I'll send Cole down to meet the two of you when I find him. Whatever you do, don't go into Richtner's office without me. Even if he tries to drag you guys in."

"That shouldn't be hard. I'll just get Baird started on his rant about the guys working day-shift engineering. He's bitched about them so many times he might as well write a novel and sell the movie rights. By the time you get there, we won't be even done with his material for chapter one--Who Stole All the Oil Filters? A Study of Basic Assholery in the Workplace."

"Yeah, and if we cut him off before intermission, you know we'll hear the rest of it later."

Dom shrugged. "I can live with that. Besides, Baird's the one guy around here I can punch."

"You shouldn't," Marcus commented, hefting the heavy kit up on one shoulder with a low grunt before he started back up the stairs. "He looks up to you, you know."

That one left Dom more than a little confused, and he nearly chuckled at the absurdity of it. If anyone else had said it, he would've dismissed the comment outright. Marcus had an uncanny ability to nail people down, but there was no way in hell Baird looked up to Dom. They squabbled worse than a pair of wild Tom cats, always testing the boundaries of each other's territory and taking swipes at each other. Neutrality came about only out of grudging respect or necessity. The two of them came from completely different family structures, and sometimes Dom sensed flashes of resentment from Baird.

With less talent and brains, Dom could've gone so much farther. He could've done anything, been anything, and his family would've backed him 'til judgment day. Then Maria got pregnant when they were sixteen, and a lot of the opportunities he could've had slammed shut in his face. In hindsight, Dom didn't see anything to be bitter about. He'd adjusted, adapted and grown. It must frustrate Baird at times, trying to figure out why Dom didn't regret the way his life turned out. All but shunned by his own family, and without one of his own, Damon had no concept of the up side of parenthood. He had no idea what it felt like to miss another person so acutely, sometimes the hurt became unbearable.

What's more, Baird couldn't understand why Dom had found such deep satisfaction in his prematurely restricted life when he'd found nothing but grief in his own, regardless of how he'd fought and scrambled toward the top of the pile. He didn't seem to understand the unhappiness he felt was beyond his control--inserted by the parents who didn't love him as they should've, and not by his own doing.

"Whatever," Dom grumbled, trudging back downstairs. He would find Damon cleaning the blood out of the trucks, and probably in a bad mood. "Looks up to me? Damn, I'm going to have to keep a closer eye on him. He's finally cracked up."


	13. Chapter 13

They found a conference room with a sturdy table, and after scrubbing down every surface she could reach, Chelsea deemed it workable. They'd unwrapped and laid down the blue sheets packed in the medical kit before laying Wes down on top of them. After cutting away his shirt, Chelsea spent at least ten minutes assessing the wound before she began extraction.

The entire time Marcus stood several feet behind her. His presence could've so easily felt like a teacher watching over her shoulder, just waiting for her to fuck up, but Chelsea sensed nothing but calming support at her back--a comfortable quiet while she worked. He stayed in case she needed help, but let her take the wheel. Unless something went catastrophically wrong. He'd informed her if that happened he would stand between her and the consequences, blatantly ignoring her protests.

Even though she took far more care than necessary, he didn't show a single sign of impatience. No irritated sighs, no boots scuffing the floor while he shifted from foot to foot.

Marcus Fenix must've been a hell of a sergeant. He knew his place, knew how to delegate and let his people do their work, and he stood between his people and authority. Any Gear could fight, but Marcus had natural ability both as a warrior and a leader. Chelsea couldn't help but wonder at his decision to enlist instead of seeking a commission. If he'd been an officer, the sky would've been the limit. Did the decision stem from a lack of ambition? The possibilities boggled the mind, and Chelsea made a note to think more on it later.

"There's going to be pressure," she informed Wes. "Do your best to relax, and don't move."

The young man nodded. He'd watched her quietly while she dosed his shoulder with shots of local anesthetic, his eyes only wandering from her face occasionally.

After several moments of maneuvering, she very gently extracted the slug from the meat of Wes's shoulder with sterile forceps, always aware of the grimace on his face at the probing. She'd found it barely under the skin, just centimeters from the original opening. After she extracted it, minimal bleeding followed its exit. She reapplied the compress onto the wound, holding it firmly, glad to hear her patient's breathing immediately ease.

Dropping the bullet in a plastic tub, she turned and held out the container until Marcus stepped forward, taking it from her. "Check that out for me?" she asked, her voice muffled by the mask she wore.

Marcus let the deformed slug roll around in the tub, studying it before he glanced up and gave her a nod. "It's all there," he confirmed, inspiring a deep sigh of relief from her. There would be no need to probe around in the wound, searching for splinters. That alone would significantly decrease the chance of complications.

Once the bleeding stopped, she prepared the wound and started to stitch it up.

She heard the whisper of the comm in Marcus's ear, and heard his curt response of, "Tell him to hold his fucking horses. I'm on my way."

"I'm almost done," she assured him. "There's a few superficial wood splinters around the entry site, but none of them will need more than a few stitches each. You can go if you need to."

Marcus grunted, and she heard his steps bring him right up behind her. "Hold still," he said, and she did, pausing her work. One of his large hands steadied one side of her head while he inserted his comm in her opposite ear. The tight fit blocked her hearing and felt a bit painful. "Don't worry," he reassured her, turning the bud until it sat comfortably in her ear canal, restoring her hearing. "I wiped it off first."

That drew an amused snort from her. She didn't find earwax terribly offensive, but she could see the guys giving him shit about it.

"The channel isn't open. You'll have to depress the button on top for us to hear you, but if anything goes wrong, just let us know. I don't care how minor it seems." He emphasized that last part.

"Who else would be able to hear me?" she asked.

"No one. Our crew uses channel 23 and Baird set up the encryption. Only the four of us have the hash code keyed in."

"So if you guys aren't done in an hour, should I send for you anyway?" she asked, a bit of humor in her voice for the first time in hours. "Save you from the tongue lashing?"

Marcus grunted, but it sounded like an amused grunt. "Don't tempt me," he said, and she heard him turn on his heel and start marching toward the door.

"Thanks, Marcus," she called after him, hoping he heard in her tone how much she meant it. He'd forced her to face this challenge and conquer it, and all she could say was 'thanks.' It seemed terribly inadequate.

She heard him pause, but otherwise got no response. Then he was gone.

"You're lucky," she informed Wes while sewing the wound. It had been a while since she'd attempted stitches, and the latex gloves didn't make things any easier. The work went slowly, but her progress thus far looked professional. "This is way shallower than I would've expected."

"Yeah?" Wes said. His breathing was much better now that the bullet was out. "How long 'til I'm back on my feet?" he asked, those deep brown eyes never leaving her face. Even when the pressure on the injury was at its worst, he'd rarely looked away from her, but he'd remained silent while she'd worked, or perhaps because of Marcus's presence.

"We'll see how it goes. You'll need a sling for a while. I can't guarantee this shoulder will ever be the same." She wished she could do more for him. Recommend a physical therapist, or something. Unfortunately she'd never had the opportunity to train in physical therapy. Too much training for too little benefit during the war.

Wes sighed. "Guess I should expect that," he said. He cleared his throat, glancing at the needle pulling his skin back together. "So, that guy."

"Which guy?"

"You know. The big slab of beef. Fenix. Sergeant Badass. You with him?"

Chelsea snorted, but refrained from laughing outright. Did she detect a hint of vulnerability in his question? "I find it interesting that you'd assume I'm 'with' the largest male specimen you've seen me stand next to."

"That's kind of how it goes these days. Guys like that always have a girl, or two, and a bunch of kids. Besides, I heard him say you're their roommate, and I saw the look on your face when you didn't see the other two."

"That's sort of an exaggeration. I got forcibly evicted and I'm staying with them for a couple days until I find another place."

"So, what, you're related to one of them? Is it the Corporal? Please don't tell me you're _his_ sister."

"Baird? No, I'm not related to him," she hedged. This was going to be a hard secret to keep, especially if those guys didn't keep their mouths shut. She sighed. "It's kind of a long story. Dom's sort of a distant cousin."

One of Wes's eyebrows raised, and she decided he didn't look very cute when he was skeptical. Or maybe that dislike came from her guts tying in knots, fearing he might discover her secret and tell someone. "Wait. You've got blue eyes and blonde hair. How's Santiago your cousin again?"

"Through marriage, smartass," she sniped. "Now shut up so I don't fuck up these stitches and have to start over."

He laughed as well as he could, considering. He continued to look at her, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

"What?" she asked.

"You're like, available. You're living with Delta, and you're available. I'm trying to wrap my head around it."

Chelsea hadn't tried to imagine herself in a relationship with one of the men she shared an apartment with. Not that she didn't find them attractive, there just hadn't been room for those thoughts the past two days. Except for Baird's assessment of her 'assets' that morning, none of them had even looked at her. If she let herself form a crush on one of them--and it would be easy to do--she had a feeling she'd be in for some serious heartbreak. "What'd you expect? That I'd be screwing them? They're all at least ten years older than me, except for Damon--and he doesn't live there."

"All right," Wes said, making a placating gesture with his good arm. "In that case. Would you want to grab lunch with me sometime? You know, when I come back to work?"

"Sure, why not?" Chelsea said without thinking much about it. What was lunch? Not even the company could get mad at her for spending lunch with a co-worker. It seemed like such a normal thing, and yet it stuck out like a sore thumb. She'd never been asked out before. It was a huge deal, and yet she tried to play it cool. It would really suck to get her hopes up, only to find it didn't work out.

* * *

Baird sat with his boots up on the conference table, tipped onto the back legs of his chair, his fingers laced behind his head through his unruly blonde hair. Surrounded by an unwillingly captive audience, he was in his element. "What I'm trying to say is, it's pretty damn difficult for me to accomplish anything when the company tool chests are getting fleeced. I have my own basic set, but there are some things I just can't get my hands on at a moment's notice."

Normally this conversation would've bored Dom to tears, but at least this time he felt like a conspirator instead of an unwilling ear. Damon had stretched out his string of complaints for an hour, and still no sign of Marcus. Even Baird seemed to be flagging on the diversion.

Fortunately Richtner had no clue how to deal with the blond engineer. Every time he tried to interrupt, Baird plowed straight through, talking over him until he quit trying.

Richtner was a small man. Only about five feet eight inches, and balding. His dark hair had receded three inches already and if the past year was any evidence, it wasn't slowing down. He rubbed at his temples, irritated by Baird's monologue and Marcus's absence. "I'm not sure how much help I can be. Engineering isn't my division," he growled.

"Yeah, but I don't have anyone in my corner, man. There's no night shift supervisor, and day shift is on the take."

Marcus strode into the conference room, and Richtner reined in whatever response he was about to throw Baird's way. "Nice of you to join us, Fenix." It was a petty strike--and Richtner's voice, pitched half an octave too high, only made the comment sound more childish. The wearying sarcasm wasn't lost on Marcus, but to anyone who didn't know him, his complete lack of reaction made it impossible to tell.

"I'm sure you'll be glad to hear Kendall came through the extraction without complications, _sir_," Marcus said, lacing that last word with the same nearly-too-subtle-to-detect contempt he usually reserved for incompetent officers. Since they'd left the COG, Dom hadn't heard him pull out the '_sir_' on anyone.

Marcus pulled out a chair between Dom and Baird, sinking heavily into his seat. Damon immediately let his chair fall onto all four legs when Marcus came within arm's reach. A wise move, considering how many times the sergeant had knocked him from that same precarious position in the past.

"Of course I'm glad Kendall's going to be all right," Richtner said. "His injury was unfortunate, and unnecessary. What the hell were you thinking, Fenix? This company has protocols for dealing with Stranded, and if you'd followed them..."

The prominent muscle in Baird's jaw bunched and his eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, like a predator ready to spring on prey--except Damon's best weapon happened to be his mouth. Fortunately Marcus was a hair faster on the trigger.

"Why don't you listen to the entire report from the beginning, and _then _you can decide what protocols we should've followed." From there, Marcus launched into a fair and extremely accurate recount of the events that transpired.

Richtner appeared to listen, but judging from the glazed look in his eyes, Dom suspected he actually sat there tallying the points he intended to counter when he got his turn to speak. When Marcus finally finished, the small man at the head of the table stood, his palms flat on the table.

Dom knew the look in his eyes. He was pompous, full of himself. Thought he knew how to do their job better than they did. They'd seen it in the COG dozens of times, and it never boded well for them.

"You guys are my best crew," he said.

Dom scoffed under his breath. They all knew there was a 'but' coming. The heavy silence in the conference room made that clear.

"But that's no excuse. Your actions today were shameful to this company, and showed a disturbing lack of restraint. We'll be lucky if no legal action is taken against us as a result of what transpired today."

Whatever might've come out of Baird's mouth in response to that statement died in his throat when Marcus kicked him under the table. For once Dom didn't blame the guy. He wanted to call bullshit on that remark as well. The COG was virtually at war with Stranded and pirates. Former Gears killing a few looters in self-defense wouldn't even blip on the COG's radar.

Richtner ranted at them for a long time. All the same shit. Trying to build up their accomplishments in Delta, at the company, and then ripping down the decisions they'd made. The speech must've been a long time in the making, because Richtner brought up shit that happened months ago, over a year ago. They'd faced other events such as this when encountering Stranded, but usually overwhelming force carried them through. It hadn't ever come to life or death before, but they'd never backed down. Their crew always walked away uninjured.

Hell, Richtner even brought up Chuck--their former crew mate. He'd all but blown himself up because he was a drunk, and no matter how many times Marcus complained, Richtner wouldn't take him out of the field. To hear Richtner tell it, Chuck was a poor, misunderstood soul and they failed to help him.

It must've gone on for hours. Dom could hardly believe Baird contained himself. He watched the younger man squirm in his seat, that same muscle in his jaw working overtime. Dom halfheartedly wished Damon would lose it for all their sakes. Whether it was fear of losing his job, or Marcus's presence, Baird managed to keep a muzzle on it.

"What am I going to tell Wes Kendall's family?" Richtner asked. "He's just a boy. How did you think he would react, when the four of you decided to resort to violence instead of following regulation?"

Dom almost yawned. Did Kendall even have a family? If he did, Dom was pretty sure Richtner didn't know them--nor would he ever speak to them.

"I'm holding the four of you responsible for his injury."

That was the last straw for Baird. "What?" he exclaimed in disbelief. "You can't hold us responsible for that twerp! I told him if he moved half an inch off my six I'd shoot him myself. He didn't listen."

It was the opening Richtner had been waiting for. Maybe that's what he'd wanted all along--for one of them to break down and say something. "Ironic, considering the four of you can't seem to listen, either," Richtner shot back, just at the beginning of working himself up into a foaming frenzy. "How can I trust you out in the field, knowing these sorts of events will continue to occur? Probably continue to escalate!"

"If you're so worried, why don't you have us examined?" Marcus asked, his calm a slap in the face to Richtner's determination to fly off the handle.

Baird turned toward the sergeant. "What?" he said, indignant.

"It sounds like you have concerns about how we react in the field, Richtner. Why not have us evaluated by a medical professional?" he asked, refusing to fall into the trap of getting upset.

Dom could see why Marcus had harped on the three of them refraining from getting angry. Richtner wanted that. It made him more powerful. Marcus played a different game, and he would win if they didn't blow it for him.

"Three of you are already meeting with Ms. Kerria," Richtner said, quickly losing steam.

"We've only met with her a couple times. Maybe if you spoke with her, she could shed some light on our behavior, and how she plans to help us overcome the trauma we experienced during the war."

_Okay, now Marcus is making fun of him,_ Dom thought. _Shit, he's spoon feeding the guy bullshit. He can't possibly be this stupid. _

Richtner considered that for a long moment, his mouth pressing into a thin line while he let his chin rest on one fist. "I think that might be a start," he said. Then he continued, "I want all four of you in session with Ms. Kerria tomorrow morning, and I'll be attending."

Dom bit the inside of his cheek, trying hard to not let his expression turn sour. _Shit, he IS that stupid._

"What?" Baird repeated a third time, this time looking at Richtner, even more indignant than before.

Dom thought he could see where Marcus wanted to go with this. They had Chelsea in their corner, and Richtner didn't know it. Still, going down this road would suck for everyone, and they would have to ask Chelsea for yet another favor. She'd already done impromptu surgery on a guy from their crew, now they were going to ask her to lie to their supervisor? Whatever she told him would be a lie, because Richtner sure as hell didn't want to hear the truth.

If she didn't lie, Richtner might use it as an excuse to fire them. No matter what happened, Dom didn't want to put her in that position. He'd exercised appropriate use of lethal force since age sixteen. So Richtner didn't trust him to defend his life or his buddies? Fuck him. Dom was a commando. He'd die for any man sitting at that table, except Richtner. No one would die willingly for that ass wipe, but if he had his way, they might die for lack of ability to defend themselves.

Seeing a hot flash of red across his vision, Dom got to his feet, whether to retort or slug their supervisor in the face, he'd never know. Marcus anticipated and got up with him.

"Guess we'll see you tomorrow in session then," Marcus said, grabbing Dom by the collar and roughly shoving him toward the door.

"What the hell do you people have against me seeing my bed?" Damon demanded, a very mild reproof by The Baird Standard, but judging by the look on his face--mouth tightened to a line and rapid blinking--he was getting ready to launch into a truly epic tirade.

Reaching back, Marcus grabbed Baird's collar with his other hand, dragging him out of his chair and along behind them. It really was frightening, the way Marcus could manhandle them like a couple unruly school boys. He pushed them both ahead of him, holding onto them until they cleared the doorway. Cole brought up the rear, closing the door behind him.

Breaking free from his friend's grip, Dom walked up to the hallway's non-functioning drinking fountain and kicked it so hard it half detached from the wall. "You should've let me hit him!" Dom said. He had half a mind to take a swing at Marcus, for lack of a better option. "Fuck, now what are we going to do?"

"Yeah, now what're we going to do?" Baird asked, standing in the middle of the hall with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Marcus. "I have to work tonight, Fenix. After three days with no sleep, the last thing I want is some bitch poking around at my head--with _your_ supervisor in attendance."

"We need girlfriends," Cole interjected, like it was the most rational statement in the world, prompting every single one of them to stop and turn to look at him, unsure if they should be puzzled or annoyed by his sudden declaration. "This place is getting too stuffy with the male hormones. Everyone's angry all the time, and all we have to look forward to is more of the same at home. We need girls to go home to. A little soft feminine love for a change."

"Your point?" Baird demanded.

"My point is Richtner needs to get laid. Maybe we all do. Sometimes I think that's half the purpose behind the breeding laws. The best way to calm down a primarily male fighting populous is to get 'em to start families. Then they're too tired to start fights."

"I agree with you on the part where I get laid. You lost me on the rest," Baird determined.

_He's right. _Would this have dug so deep under his skin if he still had Maria to go home to? Probably not.

With a wave of one hand, Marcus benched the conversation. "You guys go home and rest up. Baird, get some sleep before your shift. I'll go relieve Chelsea of her patient and she can ride home with you."

"How can we ask her to do this, Marcus?" Dom asked. Some of his anger had died down, but he still needed an answer to this. He hated dragging the girl into their problems.

"I'll talk to her tonight when I get home. We'll figure something out."

He almost opened his mouth to press the issue, but then aborted the attempt when Marcus gave him the 'trust me' look.

"You better look out for her," Dom said. "If we get fired, she better not get lumped in with us."

With that said, Dom turned to walk down the hall. After a moment he heard Baird and Cole follow after him.

* * *

After she finished stitching up Wes Kendall, Chelsea waited with him until Marcus came back. They talked about working at Bender Fields, and various places they'd worked before. The conversation was light, pleasant.

Eventually Wes dozed off and Chelsea slumped down in her chair. She might've dozed off a little herself, coming to when Marcus knocked softly on the open door. Then the two of them helped Wes down to the parking lot, where they loaded him in one of the company trucks. Marcus drove him home, promising he'd make sure the kid was situated and knew to drink plenty of fluids and take his medications before leaving him. Wes said he had roommates to watch over him.

Her work done, Chelsea piled into the back seat of Baird's truck next to Dom. Cole sat shotgun, and with eyes drooping, Baird drove them home. It was late afternoon. The sun was already seeking the horizon, and it looked like it'd been a long day for everyone.

"You seem cheerful," Dom commented when she took a seat next to him. She hadn't seen him since her moment of panic earlier that day. Chelsea felt a strong urge to throw her arms around Dom's neck and hug him, while chastising him for letting her think he was gone. Instead she chucked him on the shoulder with a loose fist. "Thought you were dead," she informed him. Sure they'd already been through some stressful shit together, but she had to keep focused on the fact that she really didn't know these guys yet. She feared she was too close for comfort already, probably building images of them that weren't entirely accurate.

The humor drained from Dom's face, his expression turning grim. Chelsea immediately regretted bringing the subject up. "Yeah, Cole mentioned that. Sorry about that. Most people we've known assume we're indestructible..." he trailed off. "We take it for granted, but we shouldn't."

Angels may have watched over Delta during the war, but she'd seen men die. None of the Gears she'd treated during the war were any less strong than Cole, or any less capable than Baird. Their luck just ran out. It could happen to anyone. Still, Chelsea didn't want to make Dom feel guilty for scaring her. He couldn't have possibly known she'd assume they were dead, but he did seem to understand the anguish she'd suffered. Was it healthy, for him to know she harbored such strong feelings for them?

"Gus said you saw Santiago wasn't there and you flipped out," Baird informed her from the driver's seat. He sounded disgruntled, and his sudden hostility confused her. Sitting on a diagonal from him, she could only see the side of his face, but the large muscle in his jaw worked, lengthening and clenching in a motion that almost looked like his was grinding his teeth together.

"Ah, that's adorable, Damon," Cole said. "You worried Shrink-Lady didn't miss you too?"

"No. I'm just wondering what the hell's so great about Dom. Everyone misses him."

"It's 'cause I'm cuter than you," Dom laughed.

That spurred Baird to mumble something that sounded suspiciously like a jab at Dom's ethnic heritage.

"Well, don't worry. Shrink-Lady didn't say 'where's Dom?' She went all bug-eyed and said, 'where are _they_?' You were included."

Baird shook his head. "That doesn't make me feel better," he said.

Cole turned a meaningful glance on her that had undertones of mischief in spite of its seriousness. "Just ignore him, Shrink-Lady. He's cranky."

That prompted more muttering from the driver's seat.

Chelsea smiled, shaking her head. "You talk to Richtner?" she asked, deciding the conversation needed a change in course.

"Yeah." Dom nodded tiredly, like the very thought was taxing. "He had us in his office forever, screaming at us until Marcus had enough."

"I still can't believe that asshole signed us up for therapy," Baird interjected. "I mean, you guys--fine, but I'm not on his damn crew."

Cole made a sound that landed somewhere between a sarcastic laugh and exhausted sigh. "I'm pretty sure we'd still be in that office getting our asses handed to us if he hadn't. The way Richtner got going, we're lucky to still have our jobs."

Chelsea leaned forward in her seat. "Wait, what happened?" she asked. Marcus, Dom and Cole were already in therapy with her. It was hard to fathom that therapy had anything to do with placating a supervisor when Stranded showed up at a job site and shot an employee.

"Let's just say after today's events, Richtner's unsure of our mental stability," Dom said. "Marcus suggested that it might make him feel better if he sat in on our therapy sessions with you. I think he meant Richtner could come to Marcus's session in a few weeks, after things calm down, but Richtner wants to do it tomorrow morning, with all of us."

Chelsea shook her head, trying to do a double take but the pieces just wouldn't add up. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It doesn't. That's why it _sucks_," Baird emphasized. "He wants to sit there and tell us we're exceptionally prone to violent behavior? Like today would've turned out any different if we'd just walked up and talked to those assholes?"

"Yeah, I'm really glad you guys chose _not_ to do that," Chelsea said, and she meant it. "Besides, from a psych perspective, I don't see how your reaction would be out of bounds for the norm in today's society."

"Richtner doesn't see things from the same..." Dom trailed off. "Ah, shit. Cole, what's the word Marcus used?"

"Paradigm."

"Yeah. He doesn't have the same paradigm as the rest of the world."

"He's nuts," Baird grumbled. "Living in a magical land where the war didn't happen, and the vast majority of people would _never_ think about shooting their neighbor for the shirt on his back," he said, using his most patronizing tone.

"Hey, I've heard of that place," Cole said. "I hear they've got some hot fairy princesses there."

"You know, this could be really fun," Chelsea said. "I mean, Richtner has no clue about psych therapy. I could do your horoscopes and he wouldn't know the difference, right?"

"I don't want you to do anything that might get you in trouble," Dom emphasized.

Chelsea just smiled. "Don't worry about it. I'll figure something out. I can hold my own against assholes who actually know something about the medical field. Richtner should be a piece of cake."

Dom sighed, but he must've conceded the point for the moment, because he changed the subject. "What were you smiling about, when you got in here?" he asked, and she realized he'd turned those sharp eyes on her, and a little of the smile came back to the corners of his mouth.

Chelsea shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing," she said, but her own face destroyed her credibility. It started turning red, and she couldn't suppress a very small smile. "It's probably nothing," she corrected. "While I was stitching Wes up, he asked me to go to lunch with him sometime. He'll probably forget."

"You better hope he forgets," Baird grumbled, and she could almost see the dark storm clouds brewing around his head. "Kid's a walking disaster. If you're in trouble and he tries to come to your aid, do yourself a big favor and punch him in the face before he gets you killed."

"He won't forget," Dom said, ignoring Baird's sulkiness. He looked amused and knowing. "What do you think, Cole? Is he going to forget?"

"He better not, or else he'll have to go to lunch with the Cole Train, and he'll be buying," Cole said, chuckling.

Chelsea didn't get the joke. Her confusion must've showed, because Dom leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Let's just say Cole can be a pretty expensive date."

She smiled, shaking her head. "You guys should really think about taking this show on the road," she said, turning to look out the window at the buildings passing by. Some of them were intact, some were future Bender Fields projects.

Sometimes the scope of humanity's undertaking struck her as staggering. Rebuilding the planet would take generations. Hundreds of years. She just hoped this time they'd get it right.

Then again, with assholes like Richtner around to slow down progress, maybe they'd never get it done.

* * *

_AN: I just wrote some of this the past couple days, and typically I like to spend more time editing--but I got lazy, a fact I'll probably bemoan when I go back and read it through again. I apologize for any lacking in quality or mistakes. Hopefully things will get moving a little faster the next few chapters. Eventually I have to get some action going here :-) Thanks again for all the great feedback I've been getting. I've been busy at work and haven't responded like I should, and for that I apologize. I will do my best to do better. Promise!_


	14. Chapter 14

"So, Chelsea. Cole has the most interesting theory about why we're all so pissy all the time. Want to hear it?" Baird asked abruptly, his words taunting. The four of them were trudging up the tedious eight flights of stairs to the apartment, and Baird had already exhausted his repertoire of complaints about the climb.

"You got a permit for that loaded question?" she quipped, trying to keep some distance from Baird's swirling mental vortex. He'd long ago hooked Dom, line and sinker, and reeled him into it. Cole and Marcus seemed to handle him better. Chelsea preferred to not get sucked in. Perhaps if she kept her head long enough, he'd revert to easier prey. Baird had regarded her with respect up until now. Maybe when he got tired and cranky enough, he just made a point of being hostile toward everyone.

"Cole thinks we should all get laid. Maybe as our shrink, you could write a prescription for that."

"Man, I didn't say we all needed to get laid. I _said_ we needed girlfriends," Cole clarified. "There's a difference."

Chelsea let one side of her mouth tick up a little. _Where's he going with this?_ "Maybe I could buy you guys drinks at a strip bar. Good enough?"

Reaching the sixth floor landing ahead of the rest of them, Damon turned around, regally looking down on them with his arms crossed over his chest, his feet braced shoulder-width apart. King Baird, gazing down upon his minions. "Oh, I don't know. I thought maybe you could write us prescriptions, and then _fill_ them for us," he said, raising one eyebrow and waiting for her reaction to his scandalous suggestion.

"Why would you think something that stupid?" Dom asked, a clear warning in the words. He stalked up the stairs, stopping next to Damon, fire in his dark eyes. After watching Dom fearlessly stare down a much more physically imposing Marcus, it didn't surprise her that Dom seemed less than impressed by Baird's ire.

"What?" Baird asked, trying to sound innocent. "Is it so wrong for me to want to see the look on your face, on _Fenix's _face, when your little adopted coed tries to seduce you? It's a joke. She's smiling, isn't she?"

She was smiling at that image. Smirking, actually, because it was so ridiculous. She couldn't even imagine herself in high heels, nevertheless attempting to seduce anyone.

"Damon, baby, didn't your mama teach you how to be nice to girls?" Cole asked. He and Chelsea were bringing up the rear of the group, trudging up the stairs side-by-side.

Baird snorted. "My mother forgot a lot of things. Her lithium, her kids... So, why don't you enlighten me, Gus?" he snarked, just as the two of them reached the landing where he and Dom were already standing.

"You gotta be smooth, like the Train," Cole said. He got down on one knee in front of her, showing incredible grace even in that simple movement. He didn't just fall to a knee--he made the action into a physical work of art. Cole took Chelsea's hand in both of his, the touch shockingly gentle considering his hands engulfed hers. "Shrink-Lady, I need you to write me a _prescription._" When Cole turned on the charm, his deep voice became like velvet. Smooth, soft, inviting. Sexy.

Chelsea felt her cheeks begin to turn pink and she couldn't suppress a smile, knowing he was teasing her.

"A prescription for _love_." Cole gently tugged her closer, cupping her hand over his heart with both of his, his brown eyes giving her the full effect of his most soulful gaze. "Love for my friend...Damon Baird. Because, baby, if you won't love him, who will? Who will?"

Defeated, Damon threw his hands up in the air. "Fuck. Just shoot me and be done with it," he declared, turning to continue up the stairs, with or without them.

Chelsea tried unsuccessfully to cover her sudden fit of embarrassed laughter with her other hand.

Cole hopped to his feet, holding out his fist so she could bump it with her own. "Hell, yeah. Gave him a dose of his own medicine, didn't we, Shrink-Lady?"

Even Dom smiled, shaking his head at Cole's antics, and Baird's reaction.

Damon pretended to glower, but kept his silence while the four of them finished the long climb to the eighth floor, exiting the stairwell and heading down the hall toward apartment 817.

Chelsea let her mind wander, wondering if she should go visit her mother over the upcoming weekend. It was a long trek across the city to VA Living, and Chelsea didn't always make it. She hadn't managed the walk several times over the winter simply because of bad weather.

From the front of the group, Baird's voice cut through her thoughts, pitched to his most mocking tone. "Well, look who the cat dragged in," he said, greeting someone Chelsea couldn't see around the bulky men standing in front of her.

"Good to see you too." It was a woman. By the roughness of the voice, Chelsea guessed a mature woman. By the accent, she guessed an Islander. "How is Granny's clever boy?" she asked sardonically, and the way she said it gave Chelsea the feeling that Baird had bestowed the unwanted nickname 'Granny' upon her. A mature woman with large helping of dry wit, apparently.

"Hey, it's Boomer-Lady!" Cole said, moving past Damon to greet the woman standing by the door to their apartment.

Chelsea finally caught sight of Cole's 'Boomer-Lady.' She was an older woman, at least in her mid-fifties, with short steel-gray hair and dark eyes that seemed to sparkle with wit and intelligence. Her complexion and accent pointed toward a South Island origin. Chelsea couldn't help being a little in awe of the woman's height; she stood just a few inches shorter than Dom and Baird. She had broad shoulders for a female and she carried herself like an athlete--or maybe a female lion. There was definitely something predatory about her.

Cole walked up and gave her a bear hug, lifting her off the ground. Right behind him, Dom joined Cole in greeting the woman. "Mataki!" he said, hugging her with one massive arm. "What're you doing here?"

"Hoffman gave me drill sergeant duty. There's a good recruiting base here in the city, and I'll be teaching survival courses at Fort Callier for the next year at least. Since I'm going to be in the area, I thought I'd drop by and see my boys."

Chelsea approached Baird's side, not quite sure where she fit in this scene. It surprised her a little when he bumped her with his elbow. "Hey, do me a favor. Don't leave me alone with them," he grumbled.

"Who's your friend, Blondie?" Mataki asked.

Chelsea bit her lower lip so she wouldn't smile. _Blondie? Oh, I'll bet he loves that._

Giving Baird's arm a reassuring pat, Chelsea stepped past him and extended her hand for the older woman to shake. Mataki had a firm grip. Her palm was dry and calloused. "Chelsea Ferria," she introduced herself.

"We call her Shrink-Lady," Cole added as an aside.

"Sergeant Bernie Mataki," Mataki replied, and her brow furrowed, like she might be trying to recall some faded memory. "You have any relatives who served in the infantry?"

"My dad and brothers. My dad was Major Justin Ferria."

Judging by the 'ah-ha' reaction on Bernie's face, that information must've dropped some puzzle piece into place. Mataki nodded solemnly. "I think I remember your father--by reputation, at least. A good man. Always did his job, never said much. Some thought he deserved more recognition than he got, but he never wanted it."

A little stunned, Chelsea nodded. She'd rarely come across people who'd served with or under her father. Most of them were dead. "Thank you," she said. "He died when I was young. It's good to hear others had a high opinion of him."

"If you ever get the chance, you should ask Anya Stroud if she remembers him. I think he might've run in the same social circle as Helena Stroud, Anya's mother."

"Isn't Anya still at Vectes, Bernie?" Dom asked.

Bernie smiled coyly. "Oh, I think if she has her way, the Lieutenant will be assigned to Callier sooner or later," she said, shooting Dom a wink. "Hey, Blondie. Where's Granny's hug?"

"Baird's not in a very hug-able mood right now, Boomer-Lady," Cole warned her. "You might say we had a bad day at the office."

Chelsea tried not to scoff at that. Was Baird _ever_ in a hug-able mood?

Unfazed, Bernie walked right up to Baird, ignoring his scowling countenance, and hooked her arm through his, pulling him toward the apartment. Chelsea braced for the explosion to come, but surprisingly Baird tolerated the treatment. He didn't look very happy about it, but allowed himself to be dragged, grumbling a few choice words under his breath. "Well, in that case, maybe Granny should make her boys dinner."

"Does that mean you're going to cook us some road kill stew?" Baird asked sarcastically.

"Only for you, Blondie," Bernie shot back, her voice falsely sweet. She slapped on a big smile. "Granny _loves_ her clever boy."

"Kill me," Baird grumbled in Chelsea's direction when he got dragged past her.

Bernie and Baird followed Dom inside the apartment, giving Chelsea the opportunity to turn to Cole. "Road kill stew?" she asked.

Cole smiled. "Bernie's a survival expert. When she'd cook during the war, usually it was best to tuck in and not ask where the meat came from, you know?"

"Oh," Chelsea said. "So, does Baird always let her treat him like that?"

"Not always. She kinda had to earn it," Cole said, ushering her inside ahead of him.

* * *

Marcus arrived home just as dinner finished cooking. Mataki had raided the freezer for a package of frozen chicken, letting it soak in a soy-sauce based marinade while Dom recounted the events of the day. Meanwhile, Baird passed out on the couch. None of them bothered to wake him when the chicken finished frying. They let him sleep, standing around the kitchen holding their plates instead of sitting down at the table, leaving the lights dim in the living room.

Mataki leaned back against the counter next to Marcus, setting a cup of coffee behind her, where she wouldn't be likely to knock it over. Across the small space, Chelsea Ferria was explaining to Dom and Cole the basic therapy techniques she'd been trained to use on war vets, including desensitizing exercises and recommended courses of drug therapy. The three of them joked about pulling the wool over Richtner's eyes in session the next day, most of the suggestions too ridiculous to actually attempt.

"So, how did you guys pick up that one?" Bernie asked, referring to the girl.

"Dom," Marcus replied, explaining it all with one syllable.

Bernie had watched the girl the same way a wolf watched a deer. Mostly from her peripheral vision. "She's no Anya," she pointed out, sounding _almost _innocent. "Doesn't have that stunner beauty, but she is pretty, in a way. Reminds me of the Lieutenant when she was younger. Light hair, light eyes. Quite a bit shorter, but more compact too. Most men wouldn't see any threat in her, but the way she's built, I'll bet she throws a nasty hook."

Marcus growled a warning from the back of his throat. He did _not_ like the direction she was trying to lead him. "You think I'm looking for a replacement?" he asked, keeping his facial expression stony and continuing to cut up the chicken on his plate with the edge of his fork. The meat kept sliding away from him across the smooth surface of the plate.

"I think when Anya was that girl's age the two of you should've pulled your heads out of your asses, and maybe you've finally realized it too."

"She's Dom's project," he said dismissively.

"Yeah?" Mataki countered. "Well, so are you, last I checked."

Marcus shot her a cool glance. "Just so we're clear, are you expressing disapproval? Or trying your hand at matchmaking?"

"Who, me?" she said, again feigning innocence. Damn it, she wasn't cut out for this sort of conversation, but someone needed to point these things out. "I hardly know the girl." Truthfully she didn't know which side of the line she fell on. She'd always rooted for Anya to eventually win over Marcus's restrictive sensibilities, but it'd been twenty years. If they hadn't gotten off the ground yet, maybe they never would.

"That makes two of us," Marcus grumbled, returning his attention to his plate. She could almost see those wrought-iron walls slamming the subject shut.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, before she tried one more card. "What about Blondie? He's almost civil when she's around."

Unamused, Marcus made a low disdainful sound. "You bored, Mataki? Training recruits to cook squirrels on sticks not enough excitement for you?"

She continued on like she hadn't heard him. "The girl would really have her hands full. Blondie needs a good smack once in a while."

"She'd probably shoot him. Dom says she's lightning on the draw. If she didn't, Dom probably would."

Bernie was a sniper, and that was an open shot if she'd ever seen one. "Oh, is that the problem? Dom's pulled her under his wing like his own chick, and the lot of you big bad men are afraid of ruffling his feathers?"

He grunted, the sound neither an affirmative or a negation. "If only Baird had the sense to be afraid of that." Marcus finally set the fork aside and wrapped the boneless chicken breast up in the piece of slightly stale bread on his plate, using his make-shift sandwich to mop up the juices left behind before he took a bite.

He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, and she could almost see his brain turning over their conversation behind his cold eyes, examining it, figuring out what it meant. Marcus Fenix might be the thickest-skulled bastard on the planet, but he was damn hard to manipulate. He had an unfathomable talent for rooting out subtle motivations.

"So, what're you going to tell her?" he asked.

There was no point asking who he meant. Bernie knew damn well. Better to quit bullshitting him. It would only make it worse if she treated him like an idiot. "I'll tell her Dom's got a new project. Nice little girl. I believe Major Ferria might've served with Anya's mother."

"Now she's a little girl?"

"If I tell her you three boys moved in a smart, engaging young woman solely for the sake of amusement, I doubt she'll take it very well."

"You don't have to put it that way, either."

"Interesting that you still care, Marcus."

That shut him up. He went on with eating and she probably couldn't have pried another word out of him with a crowbar.

* * *

"Here's to the end of a shitty day," Dom sighed, placing his plate in the sink.

"You said it," Cole agreed, momentarily joining Dom at the sink to drop off his plate. "Seems like we don't have these problems when we're rolling a three man crew. It's these extras like Kendall who get us into trouble."

Chelsea also placed her plate in the sink and took a couple steps back so she wouldn't get in the way. She hovered around the vicinity, not wanting to look like she was skipping out on doing dishes. Based on Cole's complaints, she had a feeling Dom took a dim view on that sort of thing.

"It'll blow over." Marcus sounded sure. He'd just shown Mataki out the door. She said she needed to get back to base before lights out. She didn't have any recruits to yell at yet, but she figured she'd better get into the swing of an instructor's schedule.

Leaving his plate next to the sink, Marcus made his way over to the couch. Reaching over the back, he shook Baird awake.

Baird had caught a few hours sleep, but if anything it had only made him more groggy. Chelsea found she felt sorry for him, watching him sluggishly get ready to go. He sat on the floor by the doorway, fumbling to pull on his boots--eyes red and blurry, fingers addled by lack of sleep. Feeling guilty that he hadn't eaten anything, Chelsea busied herself wrapping up the two large chicken breasts left on the serving plate, bringing them to where Damon sat by the door, absorbed by the intricate task of tying his laces. First he'd lace them up, tie one knot, wrap the laces back around the top of his boot at mid-calf, and then make a precise bow in the front, double knotting and tucking the ends beneath the tongue of his boot. Focused so intently on the process, it took him a minute to notice her standing next to him.

Finally finished, he glanced up, and looked a bit shocked to see her there. "What?" he asked.

"You haven't eaten. Here," she said, offering the package to him.

He took it, glancing at it, and then at her. "You trying to spoil me?" he asked, the way he said it was almost accusatory.

"If it's possible, she needs to get to work on it. You could use some sweetening," Cole said, reaching down to give Baird a hand and hauling him to his feet.

"Why can't I just be an asshole?" Damon asked, philosophical. "Is that too much to ask?"

"You aren't pretty enough," Marcus informed him. He'd taken it upon himself to gather up the dishes and pots on the stove and counters.

"Screw you, Fenix," Baird said, shrugging into his jacket. There was no bite to the words, as evidenced a moment later when he called, "I'll see you guys later," before walking out the door, sounding almost friendly. A few hours of sleep had done wonders for his mood.

With Baird gone, Cole let out a deep, miserable sigh. Chelsea followed his gaze and found him looking morosely at Marcus, who was already making a large pile of dishes in the sink. Remembering back to Cole's complaint about the way Dom always cracked the whip and made him do dishes, she surmised he didn't find much enjoyment in the chore. However, when Marcus turned around he tossed the towel hanging on the oven handle at Chelsea, not Cole.

She caught it reflexively.

"I'll wash, you dry," Marcus decreed.

Cole shot her a grateful look, and when she looked in his direction again, he'd disappeared from the room like a shot. Dom seemed more reluctant to leave, but after brief silent exchange with Marcus, he disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to take a shower.

Chelsea joined Marcus by the sink, remembering back to early that morning, when he'd given her that look that clearly said he wanted to speak with her. Obviously this would be the perfect opportunity for that conversation. She just wished she could read his face, figure out what might be coming. She couldn't read him. She was starting to wonder if anyone could.

For a long moment she watched him work, hands buried deep in the sudsy water. She almost smiled, a little in awe of the fact that a guy like Marcus didn't lose any manly points even when up to his elbows in bubbly dish water. He really did seem to take everything in stride.

"I appreciate everything you've done for me," she said, accepting a clean plate from him and using the towel to dry it. "If you need me to go, I'm not going to make it hard," she said softly.

Marcus shook his head. "That's not it," he said. His pale blue eyes fixed on his present task of de-greasing a frying pan and he sighed. He seemed so tired. _Even mountains get worn down eventually,_ Chelsea reminded herself. It was so easy, to expect a glacier of a man like Marcus Fenix to not feel anything. She wondered if he found comfort in aloofness, or if he constantly struggled to overcome it. "As long as you don't cause problems, I don't care if you stay. I guarantee I've had worse roommates." His eyes were very far away when he said that, and she wondered if he was thinking about the years he spent in the Slab.

_He definitely would've had worse roommates there..._

"I'll move on if I can't make rent. If Population Control tries to get involved, I'll go with them." Her voice nearly faltered at saying that. No, she wouldn't go with them--but she wouldn't let the fight come to the guys. She'd fight it alone.

"That's not what I'm talking about." There was such brick wall finality in his tone, at first she was confused about what he meant. What other sorts of problems might she cause? She was perfectly willing to pitch in with chores and...holy shit, did he really think she was like that?

"You mean, like problems between the guys?" she asked. "You've got to be kidding me. None of you guys find me attractive."

He remained silent. Perhaps he shared Baird's theory on women. Traditional beauty didn't matter much anymore. It was convenience that counted for most guys these days; such as conveniently not having to wade through five to ten offspring fathered by some other guy. "Not saying it's something you'd do intentionally," he said. "Shit just happens sometimes. If you let him, Dom will take you in and make you part of his family. It's how he was raised. His older brother, Carlos, was that way."

His eyes finally found hers, and she struggled to meet his gaze without flinching. "That's what happened to you," she surmised slowly. "Carlos adopted you."

Marcus blinked, several times. It didn't seem to be a reaction triggered by surprise, more of an indicator of how close to home something hit him. "Dom's never going to quit on you," he said. The frying pan in his hands was way past clean. "It's not in his nature. I wanted to warn you--because sometimes that's a really hard thing to live up to." He was using his own experiences as a reference. Did he feel like he'd failed Dom? It was hard to believe the fabled Marcus Fenix had ever failed at anything.

"I don't want to let him down," she admitted. "There's no good reason why he chose to help me..."

"He sees you trying to make it on your own with no one looking out for you. He respects that. Doesn't want you getting hurt."

"The way you say it makes me sound too noble," she said, finally reaching out and taking the pan from his large hands. Finding a dry corner of the towel, she applied it to the wet iron in a circular motion, removing the dark beads of water from its surface. "I'm pretty sure I'm alone because I'm fucked up."

"You're not exactly special that way." He almost intoned the words, rinsing off a plate.

Baird had mentioned there was a girl in Marcus's life once. Could he be thinking about her just then?

"I cringe at starting off a topic with the words 'Baird mentioned...' but, Baird _did_ mention you had history with a female officer. What happened to her?"

Marcus paused, but his light blue eyes shifted to pin her with a hard stare.

_Oh, he's one of those_, she determined. She'd seen it before. Soldiers who could deal with anything war threw at them. Guys who could get physically torn to ribbons and stapled back together without blinking, but they simply couldn't deal with personal shit. Usually that type of behavior took root in a foundation of self-doubt and a lack of emotional coping skills. A troubled childhood was often the culprit, but it was more complicated than that with Marcus. His impeccable self-restraint and dedication belayed her suspicions that he'd been abused. He'd had decent role models, just not _involved_ role models...

"Were your parents workaholics?" Chelsea asked, the question slipping before she actually thought about what she was asking. Her intuition made a logical leap faster than her brain could keep up, and she wished she could snatch back the words immediately after they left her mouth. She already knew the answer. She'd all but forgotten, but she did remember who Marcus's father was. Adam Fenix--professor, officer, weapons designer. A man with ambition; a man with so many accomplishments, he'd have little time for a son. "Shit, I'm sorry. Don't answer that."

Marcus didn't get angry. Not on the outside, anyway. "Guess you really can't leave the shrink at the office," he said, handing her the clean plate and then shrugging the huge muscles in his upper back, cracking his spinal column all the way up to his neck. The sequential popping reminded her of a socket wrench ratcheting, but louder and more impressive.

"You know, it's not too late to change your mind," she said. "I am kind of annoying sometimes. My brothers thought so, and sometimes I think they weren't kidding."

"You wanna get kicked out?"

"Like you said, Dom's got enough grief in his life. I don't want to chance adding to it."

"And you want _me_ to be the bad guy?" There was a revelation. Did Marcus actually fear Dom's wrath? Whatever happened to her, Chelsea knew these two men would be brothers until they died. She doubted there was anything they couldn't forgive each other.

"If you think it's best for him, yeah, I do. If you think this whole thing could get out of hand, I want you to kick me to the curb. I can't do it. I'm fucking terrified of trying to survive out there."

She glanced over, but Marcus had resumed his marble-like facade. Not a hint of emotion crossed his features. Why would he care about her fear? Guys like Marcus were used to being treated with the same respect given to ten ton trucks. They had no idea what it felt like to be under five and a half feet tall, weigh less than a hundred and thirty pounds, and generally be seen as a disposable sex toy with legs--or as breeding stock, depending on the man doing the ogling. She had nightmares every single night. Sometimes she died, sometimes she wished she had.

For several long minutes they worked over the sink in silence. Once Chelsea had a large stack of dry dishes in front of her, Marcus directed her on where to put them.

Once finished, Marcus dried his hands and then gestured toward the living room with a jerk of his head. "Come on," he said. "Let's put the Shrink to work, shall we?"

Chelsea frowned. Was it her imagination, or had he switched his pattern of speech for just a second? He'd sounded more formal--so alien compared to his usual army cadence. She trailed after him, taking a seat across the table from him, on one of the crates.

She couldn't help smiling when he sat down, pulling the crate up to the table. He looked like a huge adult trying to sit on a little kid's chair. "I half expect those things to collapse when you guys sit down on them," she admitted guiltily.

"I figure it's coming one of these days," Marcus said, shifting to a more comfortable position on the wood box. He sighed. "I just hope Baird isn't here to see it."

Chelsea chuckled, lacing her fingers together in front of her, turning them to a ninety degree angle and cracking the second knuckle on each one in turn. "He's really not that bad, is he?"

"No, he's not so bad. If he'd told us to go fuck ourselves today he probably would've gotten away with it, but he didn't. He runs his mouth when he's scared, and around people he feels he has to compete against. You'll probably get along fine with him. You're younger than him, not a Gear, not an engineer, not male. And to answer your earlier question--yes, he does find you attractive." That last bit rolled off his tongue the same way he'd give an OP-order at a mission briefing. Like it would have no impact on her whatsoever. Business as usual.

"And you say I'm a Shrink," she teased, clearly impressed by his powers of observation, and a little unnerved by the information he'd laid out for her. How did she feel about Baird finding her attractive, if it were true? She didn't know. Flattered, maybe? "Did he tell you that?"

Marcus shook his head. He still had a seriousness about him that didn't quite fit the light conversation. "Every once in a while he'll glance your way when you're not looking."

"Really." She pondered on that a moment. Had she ever caught him looking at her? Not that she could remember. "Does that necessarily mean anything?"

Marcus shrugged one broad shoulder. "Hard to say. He might just be looking to pass the time."

True enough. If these guys were anything like her brothers, nothing female passed within a mile of them without at getting at least an up-down assessment and a grade on their 'assets.' The only difference between her brothers had been how loudly they'd shared the settled-upon grade. Her brother Tate had a habit of leaning over to the person next to him, even if that person happened to be his younger sister, and informing them point-by-point of how he'd rated a passing girl. He'd acted like all the women in the world were competing against each other in a beauty contest, and he was both the judge and the play-by-play guy. On the other end of the spectrum, Eric had almost always kept his opinions to himself.

"Uh huh. So, do you ever look?" Chelsea asked.

"Yes," Marcus said, again business as usual. Then again, maybe checking out women was business as usual for Marcus. A natural part of being an adult male that he didn't abuse, and had no reason to be ashamed of.

"Do you ever look at me?" she asked, curious. He'd started this conversation, so she figured he could handle a little bluntness.

Seeming to sense he'd wandered into dangerous waters, Marcus seemed to pull back a little more into himself, becoming pensive. "First let me ask you this," he said. "Have you 'looked' at us?"

She could've lied, but so far he'd been honest with her. "Um, yeah," she answered, nodding. "I've taken a minute or two to enjoy the scenery."

"Did it mean anything?"

"I don't waste my time when I'm not invited, so probably not."

"There you go," he concluded, in a way answering her question and leaving her with about a dozen more. When she opened her mouth to continue along that line of questioning, he held up a hand to stop her. "We need to figure out this meeting with Richter."

He was right, but damn did he have bad timing.

Chelsea huffed out a breath. "Fine," she said. "Just tell me where to go and I'll lead that old nag to water. But it'll be up to _you_ to get him to drink."

Marcus nodded slowly. "That's acceptable," he said.

* * *

_AN: Gears 3! Gears 3! 4 player co-op! Sorry, I had to mention that. I hope you guys are still enjoying the story. I kind of got the feeling after posting the last chapter that maybe the story's getting a little boring. Hopefully it picked up a little this chapter. Either way, please let me know :-) I'd really appreciate it.  
_


	15. Chapter 15

_AN: Sorry for the long delay. I've been finishing up at one job and moving on to another, so things are a bit crazy right now. Plus, I wanted to get a lot done in this chapter and it took a while to write. It is long, so hopefully that makes up for it. When I come back in a couple days and read this I'll probably edit it and add more detail work. It's a little bare bones right now._

* * *

Early the next morning, there was a knock on Chelsea's office door. "Come in," she called.

Baird opened the door, letting it shut behind him. He looked around drowsily. "Where's everyone?" he asked.

The corner of Chelsea's mouth ticked up. He really must be tired, if enunciating had gotten beyond him. "There was an emergency at one of the sites, so Richtner decided to delay for a couple hours. You can lie down and get some sleep, if you want."

There were dark circles under his eyes, and while trying to muddle through the meaning of her words he looked very much like a beaten down predator; dangerous and irritable. Glancing over at the wall, he found the light switch and flicked it off.

Even with the curtains drawn, enough light entered the office to see by. The absence of the florescent overhead made it easier to relax into the cool, quiet shadows of the room. Baird made his way over to her couch, flopping down on his back so his boots hung off the far edge. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes like he had a headache.

"You just going to sit there while I sleep?" he asked.

"That's the plan."

He laid there in silence for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling. "Shit," he finally said. "My brain's stuck in overdrive. Come over here and talk to me, would ya?"

Obediently, Chelsea grabbed one of the chairs she'd stolen from a conference room down the hall for her anticipated group session. She placed the chair next to the couch and took a seat, smoothing her pants against the tops of her thighs before crossing her legs.

"What should we talk about?" she asked, folding her hands and letting them rest on her knee.

"For starters, you can give me a detailed description of your secret encounters with your female lover. If you don't actually have one, feel free to make it up."

Chelsea smacked him on the shoulder, but she couldn't suppress a small smile. "Are you one of those guys who dreams of having his own harem?"

Baird laced his fingers behind his head, letting his eyes fall shut. "It'd be great for a while. But eventually I'd probably pick a favorite, and I am the jealous type." He cleared his throat. "So what the hell did Fenix come up with for this clusterfuck?"

She let his admission slide, deciding that pressing it would only lead to more depravity than she wanted to hear. "It's pretty carefully scripted. I'm not supposed to tell the big surprises. Richtner needs to see genuine reactions on your faces."

Damon made a noise that sounded distantly uncaring. "Whatever. I'm sure Fenix will pull it out. Seems like the bastard always finds a way."

"Am I detecting bitterness?" she asked, mildly amused.

Chelsea decided it must be a challenge for Baird, dealing with someone like Marcus. With a father like Adam Fenix, Marcus had all the earmarks of an officer. Intelligence, natural leadership ability. Obviously Baird was a mental heavy-weight in his own right, but in a lot of ways he'd never get on the same playing field as Marcus. Worse, Marcus camouflaged his raw intellect—making it impossible to guess its true depth and scope. She wondered if Baird had tried to spar mentally with the sergeant when they first met. It would be natural, for a self-declared smart guy like Damon to try to get a grip on how far he could push his superiors. How they measured up to him.

Marcus probably refused to get baited in. She'd bet Baird had found that frustrating. He probably still did, but at least now he knew Fenix better. They must've settled on an unspoken truce over the years.

One of Damon's eyebrows arched. "Let's just say if I'd gone to prison, my bones would still be rotting in that cell. No hero-worshiping Dom Santiago would've broken me out."

"There's a pretty tight bond between those two," she said carefully.

"Yeah, they think they're brothers, or some Zen shit like that. There was another one of them. Carlos. Blew himself up on a bridge at Aspho. From what I've heard, he was a fucking saint too." Behind the bluster, she definitely detected a bitter note, but she couldn't pin down what inspired it. Did Baird feel excluded from Marcus and Dom's exclusive group? Or did he not have a sibling who gave a damn about him?

Did Damon even have siblings?

"It must've been pretty special circumstances for them," Chelsea pointed out. "I doubt I'll ever care for anyone the way I loved my brothers."

Baird's mouth tightened, for just a second. A micro-expression she almost missed and it conveyed so much. Distaste, guilt, pain. "I had a brother," his voice had gone stone cold. She'd never seen him express this type of anger. Usually he'd get a lot of bluster going, and immediately get over it. Nothing truly penetrated his surface. This rage came from somewhere much deeper. "Every time he got in trouble, he blamed me. If it hadn't been for him, I would've gone to engineering school on a deferment after I graduated. Instead I got slapped with a false drug charge and shipped off to boot camp."

The fact that he still felt the betrayal so acutely, even after the war, was very telling. For most Gears, any grudges they harbored before entering the armed forces dissolved over time, overshadowed by the horrors of near-extinction.

Chelsea licked her lower lip. She must be crazy to even think she might be able to ease some of that anger. "My mother was an engineer," she started, picking at a piece of string on her pant leg. "She majored in mechanical, but she could do anything. Before the war she taught at Jacinto U on the side. Most academics don't excel in the field like she did, but her practical skills were incredible."

Baird listened patiently, his eyes becoming heavier as she spoke. Every time he blinked, she half expected him to nod off.

"My mom was...is a real genius, but she had to study like crazy to get that good. I think she would've liked you, and resented you a little, Damon. You're half her age, self-educated, and you're better than she ever would've been. You have unbelievable natural talent. Compared to what you contributed to the war effort, I think it would've been a waste for you to attempt a formal education."

Baird grunted. "Stop it, you're turning me on," he said facetiously. For a moment she thought he might pull out of his funk and return to his usual humor, but then he crossed his arms over his chest, still brooding. "I still hate him," he determined, on the verge of drifting off.

"Understandable. However, I think you're wrong about one thing."

"What?"

"I think if you were in prison, they'd bust you out."

He opened one eye and gave her a skeptical look. "You know they think I'm a dick, right?"

She shrugged. "Could be worse. Better a dick than a ball-less sack of shit. Personally, I'd much rather rescue a dick. More likely he'd be helpful clearing a path to the exit." She nodded gravely, as if agreeing with the flawless logic of her own statement. If he listened hard enough, he'd detect the subtlest prod of teasing.

He gave her a perturbed look from the corner of his eye. "You know, I'm not sure I'm ever going to get used to that," he said, resettling his head against the couch cushions.

"What?"

"Every once in a while you pop off with something I'd expect to hear from an enlisted man. Don't get me wrong, it's entertaining. It's just fuckin' weird to hear it coming out of _your_ mouth," he said, and then he paused, taking a deep breath. He rubbed his face with his palms, leaving his cheeks red and blotchy. "If I went to prison I know they'd try, depending on whether they thought I deserved it or not," he admitted. "But it wouldn't exactly rank up there on the priority list..."

"I'd come for you," she said, cutting him off. At first brush the promise seemed reckless, but from an academic distance she couldn't find any untruth in it. In practice might be a different matter, depending on the situation.

For an instant the furrow smoothed from his brow and his face relaxed into genuine surprise, but he recovered quickly, snorting dismissively. "Probably get yourself killed," he said. "Still, better _you_ than those assholes. At least if you got caught they might throw you in with me, improve the scenery. I think I'd rather rot alone than look at Santiago's ugly mug every day."

Funny, that was the sort of thing her brothers would've said about each other, Chelsea mused. She considered mentioning that fact to Baird, but as she watched his eyes finally fell shut, and he started to drift off. She decided not to disturb him.

* * *

"I apologize for the lack of reading material," Chelsea said, crossing one leg over the other and folding her hands on top of her knee. She was seated in Richtner's office, briefing him before the session with Delta. "Usually it's helpful to see an outline of the therapy process, but the resources for pamphlets are sorely lacking these days."

"Don't worry about it," Richtner replied. He sat behind his desk, across from her. "Lack of resources is a problem I can understand," he gaffed.

Chelsea forced a tight smile. There was nothing wrong with the joke; it was the delivery that he flubbed—although he clearly found it funny. While waiting for him to finish laughing, she mentally checked a box next to Richtner's name marked 'socially disabled.'

Once his laughter settled into mild chuckling, Chelsea continued on, her facade of pleasantness a thin mask over her impatience and disgust. It disturbed her a little, that she could fake sucking up so well. "Usually in session, I begin by making an effort to understand a client's origins and the depth of trauma he experienced during the war. Obviously these four men saw a lot of combat, a great deal of tragedy. I would expect them to be some of the least adjusted men with Bender Fields. The incident yesterday doesn't surprise me in the least."

"It didn't surprise me, either. Marcus Fenix, in particular, has some deep seated authority issues. I need to know what we can ultimately expect in the way of recovery for these men, and whether Bender Fields should continue to invest in them as employees."

Chelsea nodded, as though she agreed. She didn't. In fact, she disagreed with such vehemence Chelsea found it difficult to remain in her chair. She wanted to walk around the desk and pop Richtner in the face. Instead, she made a fist with her left hand and squeezed it hard with her right. "Well, I've only seen them twice in session so far, but if you'd like I could do a more in-depth analysis today and share my conclusions with you."

"Would it be a problem if I observed?" Richtner asked, steepling his fingers.

She shook her head slowly, trying hard to suppress a smile. This guy was in for it, and he had no idea. "That shouldn't be a problem," she replied.

* * *

Dom stood over Baird's sleeping form, dangling a bag containing a sandwich and fries just above his nose. The blond was turned onto his stomach on the couch, and dead to the world. He hadn't woken when his three squad mates walked into the room, or when they turned on the overhead lights.

"Just wake him up," Marcus said, taking a seat in one of the free chairs.

There were only two extra chairs--Marcus had claimed one, and Richtner would probably take the other one. So unless Dom and Cole wanted to sit on the floor, Baird needed to wake the hell up and move over.

Cole appeared next to Dom, and they both looked down at Baird. Gus had a thoughtful look on his face. "You think we should?" he asked.

"Oh, definitely," Dom said.

They both turned around, their backsides facing the couch. "One, two, three," Dom counted softly.

The two of them abruptly sat down; Cole on Damon's legs, Dom on his lower back.

Baird made a very interesting noise when the air in his lungs all forced its way out. He instantly came awake. "The fuck?" he gasped, scrambling to get out from under them and failing. The two of them together weighed over five hundred pounds.

Dom and Cole appeared nonplussed while they rode out Baird's weak attempts at bucking them off. "You feel something?" Cole asked.

Dom shook his head. "Na, man. It's your imagination."

"Get off!" Damon demanded, the veins in his neck standing out and his face turning red.

Finally, Dom glanced down at the engineer squirming beneath him. "Oh, sorry, man. Didn't see you there."

The two of them rose, and when Dom glanced at Gus they exchanged brief amused smiles while Baird sputtered all kinds of filth and curses.

"What the fuck is wrong with you guys?" Damon asked, sitting up and glaring accusingly back and forth between the two of them, rubbing at his back. He'd probably have bruises where they'd landed on him.

Dom held out the sandwich bag as a peace offering. "Here. See if this reconciles it."

Baird snatched the bag, still pissed. He slid over to make room for other two men, digging through the contents of the paper bag. "What, no chocolate shake?" he asked sarcastically, and at that point Dom knew he'd forgiven them--but he probably wouldn't forget what they'd done for a while.

Cole snorted, shaking his head. "Chocolate shake," he scoffed, like Baird might as well ask him to collect all the imulsion on Sera with a teaspoon. "All we did was sit on you. Tell you what, baby. I'll track down a chocolate shake for you if I ever accidentally shoot you in the ass."

"I'm going to hold you to that," Baird threatened, shoving three French fries into his mouth, ravenous with hunger. "Where did you guys find this shit?"

As civilization reestablished itself, some aspects of society prior to E-Day had inched along, while others were non-existent one day, and back the next. French fries were one of those things that had recently reappeared. Farmers outside the city had a bumper crop of potatoes, and then one day food-sellers on the street had a variety of fried potato goods available. Wedges, fries, chips. At first it was just one or two vendors, but soon the trend spread through the entire city.

Less essential things, like chocolate, were harder to come by in this part of the world. Much harder.

Chelsea and Richtner walked into the room, and the blond girl didn't spare any of them a glance when she swept past to take her seat. Dom couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the young woman and hadn't gotten at least a tiny smile in greeting.

_Just like she doesn't know us._ Dom wondered if Marcus coached her on how to behave, or if she was that disciplined.

Next to Dom, Baird was still wolfing down his lunch while Richtner plodded in, pulling his chair into the oblong circle across from Marcus.

"Now, my impression is that we're here to discuss the issue of training crews how to properly handle confrontation with Stranded and other confrontational entities, correct?" Chelsea asked, clasping her hands together in front of her.

"Absolutely," Richtner said, nodding, like this was the most important thing he'd do all day.

Bernie would've called the man a self-involved tosser. Probably to his face.

"Excellent, I'm glad we're all on the same page," Chelsea said, reaching over to grab a stack of files off her desk. She licked her thumb, flipping through the one on top. It was probably Marcus's, judging by the thickness. Becoming one of the most decorated NCOs in the COG took a lot of paperwork.

Dom subtly glanced first at Cole, then at Baird and Marcus on his other side. Baird was the only one who met his gaze, and the engineer rolled his eyes. None of them wanted to be there.

"I've taken some time to read your files," Chelsea continued, making a show of glancing at the front page of each file, like she really didn't know them beyond a clinical setting. "I understand all of you, with the exception of Mr. Cole, have served since you were eighteen. Or younger," she allowed, glancing at Dom to acknowledge his enlistment at sixteen. "It's very understandable that after nearly twenty years of service it might be difficult to put aside all that military training and adopt new methods of coping with conflict." Chelsea sounded very grave, and Dom could tell Richtner ate up every word with a spoon. He was so thrilled to have a psychologist giving them what-for he could hardly contain his smugness.

"I'm sure you all understand," Richtner said, butting in. "That the company's best interests must be represented at all times. When our employees interact with the public, some level of civility must be kept."

_What about when they're shooting at us?_ Dom wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth shut. This was Marcus's arena, and he wouldn't interfere. Glancing over, he found Baird still more interested in stuffing his face than mouthing off.

Little Baird know, that was the entire point behind providing him with a bag of fried goodies. They'd planned ahead this time. Or maybe he knew and didn't care.

Chelsea set the files aside, rising from her seat so she could pace around the circle while she spoke. "Those are very valid concerns, and I feel confident I can address them with these men, and with other former Gears who are employed at Bender Fields. I served as a medic, but I was a part of the COG. I understand where these reactions are coming from, and I believe I can help treat them."

Richtner leaned forward in anticipation. He had no clue this was a performance. Just the fact that Chelsea had gotten up from her chair served to put her on a stage before him, and he had no idea he was the audience, and everyone around him was part of the production.

"So, I'm to understand you've had training in treating Post Traumatic Stress victims?" he asked.

"Yes, I've had medical training in that area," Chelsea said. "However, I believe instances such as the one encountered by Crew 23 yesterday come more from a physical state of being than a mental one, and can be treated much more quickly. For instance, you're aware of how reflexes work, correct? If you accidentally place your hand on a hot stove, the message that your hand is burning doesn't even reach your brain before you reflexively jerk away from the heat."

Richtner frowned. "I don't see how that's applicable," he said.

"I didn't either until I saw it in action. See, I had an instructor in triage school who did a study during the Pendulum War..." Chelsea had drifted toward Marcus while pacing, within just a few feet of him. She'd just turned her back on him to pace back across the circle, and when she abruptly cut off in mid-sentence, she turned, pulling a hand from her jacket in a motion perfectly mimicking pulling a firearm from a holster.

It was over and done in less than three seconds. Marcus swept her potentially weapon-bearing arm to the side, keeping control of it while surging out of his chair, his free hand finding her throat. He used the two anchor points to swing her around and put her down hard on her back. The disarm was efficient and brutal, especially when executed on a girl Chelsea's size by a guy like Marcus.

She looked like a rag doll getting tossed around, but Chelsea took the fall well, slapping the ground with her free arm. After taking her down, Marcus kept a lock on her right wrist, and he applied just enough pressure on her throat to keep her still, crouching over her.

Dom didn't remember getting to his feet, but Baird and Cole were standing on either side of him. The potential threat had abruptly brought them on guard, and they'd all been ready for a fight, even though they knew Marcus had it covered. The shock of what they'd just seen left all three of them subdued and uncomfortably silent.

Chelsea tapped Marcus on the shoulder, and he let her up, taking her hand and dragging her upright. She touched her throat gently, coughing once or twice.

"As you can see," she said hoarsely, pausing to cough again. "That survival reflex is deeply ingrained in these former soldiers. They don't think they just react."

Richtner seemed impressed. His eyes had almost bugged out of his head when Marcus slammed the girl to the floor. He didn't interrupt, he just listened.

"The good news," Chelsea continued, still rubbing at her throat. "The good news is that reflexes can be overridden by training. In time, I'm very confident I can desensitize these men to scenarios such as they saw yesterday, and reprogram them--in a manner of speaking--to act in a more desirable manner."

That said, Chelsea turned and repeated her earlier maneuver, pretending to draw a weapon on Dom. In spite of himself, he flinched, but he didn't move, still a little shell-shocked. If she'd pulled the same stunt on him without warning, his reaction would've been the same, but Richtner didn't know that. Chelsea and Marcus had sold him with their performance.

Chelsea turned and looked at Richtner. "I'm confident in time I can get the desired results."

Their supervisor wordlessly nodded his agreement.

* * *

"Hey, Marcus. How'd you know Richtner would go for that reprogramming bullshit?" Cole asked later, when the five of them were on their way out to grab lunch before heading back for the afternoon shift.

They moved down the street in a loose-knit military diamond formation, with Cole taking point. It was like flying behind the world's largest lead duck, but instead of taking the brunt of a headwind, Cole's mass shed pedestrians to either side of their path.

They'd spent the past two hours in Chelsea's office, pouring over the gritty details of their combined service records. Chelsea made a big show of getting to know what kind of conflict they typically saw, so she could use that data to 'desensitize' them in later sessions. She then spent another twenty minutes explaining her scheduled program for treating them all.

"Richtner likes his illusion of control," Marcus said, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. "He also likes to feel smart, but he doesn't like to work for it, and using the office shrink to put us in line does all of that for him."

"I still can't believe he asked to discuss my 'theories' in depth over dinner," Chelsea grumbled, her eyes cast downward. She kicked a pebble with her boot, sending it skittering across the pavement. She'd been mortified when Richtner had asked her out at the conclusion of the session, and she'd frozen--unsure of how he'd take getting blown off.

Surely, the man couldn't possibly think she'd associate with him outside of work.

"Seriously. The guy's old enough to be my dad," she complained, a disgusted shiver running the length of her body. She wanted to gag.

Dom snickered, nudging her. He seemed happy to have the morning's meeting behind him. A little of the spring had returned to his step. "Technically I'm old enough to be your dad, and you asked _me_ out to lunch, remember?" He was teasing, but she didn't appreciate the irony.

Normally she would've laughed, but it was too soon after the terrible event for joking. She probably would laugh about it, once her skin stopped crawling. Instead Chelsea shot him a glare. "You're what? Thirteen years older than me?"

"Yeah, we'll go with that," Dom said, amused.

"How many kids did you have at thirteen, Santiago?" Baird asked. "Two? Three?"

Dom reached forward, smacking the back of the blond's head.

"Okay, okay, just the one. My bad."

For a moment, Dom looked like he might smack Baird again, but then he relaxed, letting that last comment slide.

"You're also not creepy. That bodes well in your favor," Chelsea countered, still sulky. She crossed her arms over her chest, clearly both disgruntled and icked out. She did find some solace in being surrounded by her new roommates. It was hard to worry about a pathetic guy like Richtner when she literally lived with Delta. She half wished she could shove that fact in Richtner's face. He didn't look like much of a man in Delta's shadow. "I mean, seriously. What am I supposed to do?"

"Blow him off. Who gives a shit?" Baird asked, glancing back at her over his shoulder. "He's got no shot, and he knows it."

"I wouldn't count on him figuring that out by himself," Marcus said. He was walking next to the blond engineer.

"Shrink-Lady, all you got to do is tell him you've got a crush on the Cole Train," Cole informed her good-naturedly, turning and walking backward for several paces in front of them. He smiled big at his teasing.

Dom smirked. "Yeah. Richtner should be able to relate. Sometimes I think _he's_ got a crush on Cole."

"You know it! Everyone loves the Train," Cole said, pausing to strike a pose where he turned to one side, flexing both arms to show off the gratuitous amount of muscle he toted around. He smiled big, and it was infectious. Even Baird smirked at his friend's antics.

Marcus shortened his stride, slowly falling back to walk beside Chelsea. "How's your neck?" he asked.

For an instant she had no idea what he was talking about, and then she remembered, her fingers absently touching the place where he'd grabbed her. It was still a bit tender to the touch. "It's fine," she said, plastering on a smile.

Worried about dodging Richtner's invitation, she'd forgotten about the rough take-down she'd endured. It seemed like nothing after spending the first half of her life scrambling in a dog pile with three behemoth brothers. Chelsea grew up in a loving family, but her brothers didn't exactly fall over themselves to treat her like a princess. They didn't share with each other, or with her. She'd had to scratch and claw just for their scraps, and if she'd ever wanted anything to herself, she had to fight hard for it. A few bruises seemed trivial compared to some of the injuries she'd sustained just in playful rough-housing.

Marcus nodded, pensive. Did he worry he'd gotten too rough with her?

"Yeah, what the hell was that, man?" Baird asked. "Since when do you go ape-shit crazy on a girl half your size?"

"It was part of the show," Chelsea interjected. "It had to be convincing, and I told him to make it look real."

"Maybe we should've gotten a table for you to slam her through, huh, Fenix?" Baird goaded, not letting it go so easily. He was obviously busting Marcus's balls, but with more bite than usual. "Would that've made it look more real?"

Marcus pinned the younger man with a curious stare. "You're pretty fidgety today," he noted, and while Chelsea could detect a hidden implication behind the words, she had no idea what it might be. Marcus had a way of appearing to see through a person, and he was giving Baird that cool, unnervingly-observant look of his. It seemed Marcus made a habit of rooting out the tiny threads scattered through conversation and trailing them back to the rope they'd originated from--and once he found that rope, he'd climb it all the way to the top--if you wanted him to or not.

"Sorry if I'm not a bright bundle of joy. I haven't slept much lately," Baird shot back, seeming to concede the point, whatever it was. He said no more after that, and kept his eyes fixed forward.

* * *

"I am definitely charging time and a half for this," Baird informed Dom in the late afternoon.

After lunch, Baird had decided to go out to the new job site with Marcus's crew. He could've gone home, but after getting a couple hours sleep, he was awake--for better or worse. The new site was within a couple miles of the Bender Fields office, and it was a nice, easy, low-stress job well within Delta's area of expertise, and Baird had nothing to do but go into the building with them and help set charges.

"How's this for height?" Dom asked, strapping the C-4 onto a beam.

Baird yawned, placing the yellow measuring tape next to it, letting the metal tip rest on the floor, controlling the length of tape with his thumb. His eyes were noticeably drooping. "Up a little," he grunted. Dom complied, working the strap back and forth until Baird halted him. "That's good. Lock it down," he said, letting the tape roll back up with a soft _thwack_.

"Why don't you head back to HQ and find somewhere quiet to get some sleep?" Dom suggested, ratcheting the belt tight against the beam before locking the handle down flush with the strap. "If you ask nicely, Chelsea will probably let you pass out on her couch after her last session. You're going back on shift in six hours and you look like hell, man."

"Depends. Are you guys going to do something stupid if I leave? Something I might get blamed for because you're all dead?"

Dom rolled his eyes. "No, Baird. Trust me, we got this," he said, taking a knee next to the box with the C-4 inside and prepping the next charge.

Baird flipped the metal tape measure case up in the air, letting it spin before catching it. "Tell the truth, Dom. You got a thing for the girl?"

"Who, Chelsea?"

"_No_, Anya fuckin' Stroud. Yes, Chelsea--or whatever her name is," he said, trying hard to sound casually detached and failing miserably.

"Don't start in on her," Dom warned. He knew Baird couldn't help prodding at people, seeing how far they'd let him push before they snapped. For him, banter was a constantly elevating game. Sometimes he got carried away with the competition.

"She had brothers, man. She takes it better than you do."

"That doesn't mean she needs you breathing down her neck. She's all wired about that stupid breeding law thing. As if anyone follows that."

"Um, Dom? Have you put down the enchilada and looked around lately? There're pregnant women and brats running all over the place. Who isn't taking the breeding laws seriously?"

Dom's features darkened, and he shot Baird a nasty glare.

"All right," he said, putting both hands up in surrender. "I take it that's a 'no.' You don't have a thing for her."

"No way, man," Dom said, genuinely disgusted. "I just want to help her out. I know what'll probably happen to her if I don't. Compared to everyone else I've met since E-Day, she's relatively innocent."

"Dude, you said she's killed like eight guys."

"_Relatively innocent_. Besides, it's six guys dead or six times raped, which would you prefer?"

"Hey, I'm not criticizing," Baird insisted, continuing to spin his measuring tape in the air. "Shit, look at that girl Marcus had the hots for. If a guy broke into her room, she'd be screwed--literally. She couldn't fend off a rabid squirrel with a makeup kit and those high heels. Wearing that skirt all the time was just asking for trouble. Don't get me started on those cat claws, or those stupid gloves she wore."

Dom shot him an annoyed look. Sometimes he honestly couldn't tell if Baird was really that clueless, or if he just acted like it to get a rise out of him. "Anya can handle herself. Intel officers are required to dress that way."

"Like that's still a requirement in this day and age? With the way she shoots, that girl's lucky she's under Hoffman's wing. Plus every Gear in the COG knew if they looked at her crooked, Fenix would start snapping off heads."

"Everyone but you. You thought she had a crush on _me_. And I've seen Anya deck a guy bigger than you."

"Whatever. I'm just sayin'. Give me a girl who's comfortable in a sturdy pair of boots and keeps her nails trimmed. Anya has her uses on the radio--just not in my world. Not in Fenix's either, while we're being honest."

"That's because you only know Sergeant Fenix. You don't know Marcus that well. You saw his house. He comes from _old_ money. When he was a kid his parents took him to state dinners. They hired private tutors and had him home schooled. You haven't seen him turn on that upper-class facade and become a completely different person. Doesn't seem like it now, but the man knows where the shrimp fork goes. He grew up in a society with gentlemen, and ladies."

"And bullshit. He _chose_ not to live that life, then he met Anya and tried to have his cake and eat it too. Worked out great for him."

"Don't ever let him hear you say that, Baird. I'm serious. He won't kick your ass, but I will," he said, drawing a belt through the mounting lattice on the block of C-4.

"All right! Man, you're touchy."

"Go get some sleep. Before I punch you in the face."

Baird made for the exit. "All right, I'm going. If I stick around, you're going to start a brawl around the high explosive."

* * *

Chelsea had a frustrating afternoon. Two of her appointments wouldn't say a word. One complained about the supervisors, which was at least some progress. Then the last of the afternoon came in. He was new, a mule of a man--but she suspected he hadn't been a Gear. Something about him said 'Stranded' to her. But what kind of Stranded managed to keep on a beer gut through the war?

"Hi," she checked his file. "Terrance. My name is Dr. Ferria. How are you doing today?" She gave him the same smile she'd super-glued on all day. Fake, dispassionate. It was long past time for this work day from hell to end.

"Not doing too bad," he said, wandering past the couch instead of taking a seat. "We here for an hour?" He had approached her chair, walking around behind it, and she heard the whispering sound of his fingers dragging across the faded suede behind her head.

Chelsea froze, the file clutched tight in her suddenly sweaty hands. What kind of Stranded keeps a beer gut?

_The kind who takes what he wants and gets away with it._

"You are a pretty thing," he said, leaning close to her ear.

She didn't flinch, but she did bite her lip. Suddenly she knew, clear as day, this man would force her to kill him.

_Richtner's going to be pissed._

She glanced over her shoulder, disgusted by the man's ugly, fat, smiling face. He wouldn't go down easy. He'd probably overpower her, and hurt her--probably in more ways than she could count.

Maybe she'd remember to give a damn about Richtner when this was over.

Assuming she survived it.

* * *

_AN: You know how street musicians typically have a guitar case that people can throw tips into if they like the music? Well, think of that review button as my open guitar case (or any author's, really). These fics don't write themselves, you know! And fanfic writers can't live on bread alone. We're all feedback addicts. :-D And by the way, I still stand by my earlier statement that the Gears fandom has amazing fans who give awesome, insightful feedback. I just came up with the guitar case/review button analogy the other day and I had to share it;-)_


	16. Chapter 16

Chelsea's nose wrinkled at the smell of him. Just the sense of him encroaching inside her personal bubble made her scalp prickle with cold fear, but she couldn't let him hear it in her voice. Predators liked fearful prey. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to take your seat. We are in a professional setting." She tried to force her posture to relax, but the effort was futile.

"Pretty and educated. That formal tone just rolls right off your tongue, don't it?" Terrance said.

She left her sidearm at home. Why the fuck did she leave it at home? Heat rose through her entire body, and she fought back the bile climbing up her throat.

"Terrance, sit down," she ordered, stressing the last two syllables with her best Lieutenant voice. What she wouldn't give to have Marcus's Sergeant voice at her command. Wouldn't it be a shock, to hear that gruff voice coming out of her?

Chelsea leaned forward, her fingernails digging into the arms of her chair.

"I can think of a lot better things you could roll off your tongue," he said.

She surged out of the chair, but he grabbed her by the hair and jerked her back down, clamping a hand over her face. She couldn't let panic overwhelm her, but some panic helped. Riding on a storm surge of adrenaline, she bit and kicked like a wild thing, the same way she did as a child when one of her brothers would grab her. Some of her hair came loose from her pony-tail, flying in her face, impairing her vision.

_If I live, I'm shaving my head, _she promised herself.

Chelsea thrashed mercilessly. He didn't expect her to put up so much fight, and lost his grip. His dirty nails raked her face, and she broke away from him, bolting for the door. Before she could built up speed he caught her from behind, dragging her down.

Chelsea made sure she fell on her side, rolling onto her back, and he saw that as a victory.

"That's right. Give it up, girl. Ain't no use runnin'." His massive paws ripped at her clothes, and she grabbed his hair, pulling him down so she could wrap her legs around his barrel chest; executing a defensive manuever called 'guard' in grappling. Her boots just barely crossed at the ankles behind him, but she had him. He didn't even realize the trap he'd run into--he'd never attended the academy.

Chelsea's brother had been a commando, and he'd taught her a few tricks of the trade.

If Terrance had been smaller, she would've tied him in a knot in no time, but some guys were just too damn big. For precious moments she managed to control his movements with her legs, keeping him in her guard and never letting him take a solid swing at her, forcing him off balance every time he tried. Finally he figured out he outweighed her by a hundred pounds and grabbed her forearms, heaving back onto his heels and lifting her off the floor. On his feet, he bullrushed, slamming her against a wall with all his weight behind the impact, his shoulder driving squarely into her mid-section.

Chelsea lost the breath from her lungs in a painful gasp. The back of her head cracked against the wall, and for precious seconds she lost her bearings, but she didn't quit. Her thumbs found his eyes and she pushed in hard, blinding him, making him scream. He punched her, but she'd become too frenzied to feel. She kept hitting him--in the eyes, in the temple--she even popped him in the throat. She didn't have power on him, but she had speed and kept punching frantically. When he finally dropped her, Chelsea slid down the wall, faintly feeling clothing and skin catch and rip on a nail protruding from the plaster at her back. She hit the ground on her heels and without the wall for support she would've fallen on her butt. With a grunt of effort, she regained her balance through pure leg strength, and hauled him down by the hair, punching her knee into his groin.

He dropped to his knees, roaring in pain and fury. Feeling his arms flailing at her knees, Chelsea got her ass moving toward the door, and she nearly escaped him again, but he caught her ankle. A mistake, because when she fell forward she immediately turned over and drove the heel of her other boot into his face. His nose broke with a satisfying crack. He let go, and Chelsea scrambled on all fours toward the door, only to have it fly open, revealing a familiar set of leather boots covered by beige cargos. Chelsea rolled to the side, doing her best to scramble away on her backside, prepared to kick anyone who dared try to catch her. Her vision floated out of focus for a moment, but then sharpened, revealing Baird's form towering over her.

Terrance tried to regain his feet coming after her. Damon stepped over her, right foot forward and left fist already swinging. The stride he took added strength to the haymaker, and when he clocked her aggressor square on the point of the jaw, the blow dropped him like a very large sack of potatoes.

"Stranded piece of shit," Baird said, shaking out his hand and giving her attacker a hard kick to his soft mid-section. Unconscious, Terrance didn't even flinch at the vicious blow.

Someone kept saying, "Kill him, kill him," over and over again. It took Chelsea a minute to realize the words came from her mouth.

"Holy fuck, can I not leave you alone for two minutes?" Baird said, turning to look down at her. He knelt at her side, grabbing her elbows and helping her stand. "You look like shit."

He smelled like carbolic soap, engine oil and buffing compound, and just that second, those were safety. The cotton of his shirt was soft beneath her hands. The rest of the world drowned out, like someone poured water in her ears.

Shivers ran through her body. She wasn't scared. No, not scared--just shaky. It had never gotten this close. She'd always manged to get a shot in first, ending it before anyone ever laid a hand on her. Part of it was the fact that this attacker still lived. She hadn't killed him. What if he came back? What if next time she was overwhelmed and didn't make it?

Her mind came back to itself in small parts. She could still smell carbolic soap, she felt like she was standing on her own power, both boots rooted firmly to the floor, and she felt far away from the danger of that room. It took a while to realize her forehead was resting against Baird's collarbone.

His hand ran through her hair, down her neck. The touches were both soothing and clinical. Almost like he was checking her for injuries. When she lifted away, she left blood behind on his shirt, and the world swirled around her. Fuzzy darkness pressed in on the edges of her vision, and for a moment she thought she might pass out, or puke. Then, slowly, the darkness faded, leaving her feeling more steady.

"Fuck," she said, her stare fixed on the red stain on his shirt where her forehead had rested.

Baird nodded. He was still gently holding her biceps. "Yeah, that about sums it up," he agreed.

There were other people in the room. She really didn't know where they came from, or what they were doing. She tried to look around, but it made her dizzy.

"Hey, stay focused on me, all right? Just, don't throw up on me."

"I was a medic. I've seen blood before."

"I know. You've got a really big bump on the back of your head. Sometimes concussed people throw up. You're a doctor. You should know that." His voice was just a hint tighter than normal; the sarcasm came off flat.

"Why's this keep happening to me? I didn't do anything," she pleaded. "Why don't they leave me alone?"

"Nope, save the crying for Dom. I don't know how to deal with crying. Just, come with me," he coaxed, slowly moving her to the hall and toward the bathroom. When he finally got her there, he sat her down against one white-tiled wall and promptly disappeared. A minute later he returned to crouch at her side, using his wet t-shirt to mop up her face.

"How do I look?" she asked.

Baird smirked, using one hand to brush aside her hair so he could wipe her forehead. "Like the stroganoff left over when a grub gets run over by a drill rig."

She smacked his knee, the only part of him she could easily reach. He didn't try to avoid the blow. "Be nice," she scolded. "I'm having a bad day."

"Believe me," he said, turning and wringing out his shirt into the sink, getting some more water on it. "That _was_ being nice."

Her eyes wandered while he worked on her. From his rough jawline, to his broad shoulders. What his t-shirt had hinted at was even nicer uncovered. His skin was pale below the neckline from lack of sun, and marked only by the occasional faded scar. Two white jagged lines ran side by side from his collarbone toward the point of his right shoulder, one slightly longer than the other, and she wondered how he'd gotten them. They were old scars, faded by many years.

On the top of his left wrist, Chelsea recognized the mottled coloring particular to a burn. After studying his muscled arm for several hazy minutes, her eyes lingering on the vein perfectly bisecting his bicep, her gaze meandered back up to his shoulder. He had nice pecs, a two thirds of a six-pack and a well-defined V slanting toward his low-slung cargos. Then, of course, there was the square silver belt-buckle, lying nearly flush with his belt. It looked so ordinary, but he could open beer bottles with it. She'd seen him do it.

"How old are you?" she asked. His physique was clearly that of a mature male, but still sleek--when guys got to be Dom and Marcus's age, lots of times they simply got bigger. New muscle built on top of old, making them more barrel-chested and generally bigger in the waist. Damon didn't have that yet.

"I'm legal, if that's what you're worried about," he said, and there might've been a smidgen of chain yanking in the comment if she'd cared to listen hard enough for it. He'd noticed her eyes wandering over him, and where they'd come to rest at his belt-line. "What about you?"

"I can drink," she said. "Legally."

"Yeah, but for how long?"

She started to respond, but the words got lost before they came out of her mouth, and the question quickly slipped from her mind. "I got beat the fuck up," she finally said. "Did I lose?"

Baird shook his head. "Na, you won. You walked away from it, he didn't."

"You kind of had to rescue me. That's gonna take a real chip out of my pride."

"Well, you know what they say. It's easy to make sausage when someone else already ground up the meat."

She shook her head. "I don't get it."

"He was done by the time I got there. One more good hit to the head and he would've gone down."

"I don't like being rescued."

"I noticed."

"I mean, thanks for rescuing me, but I sleep at night because I..." She struggled to push herself up against the tile. Her slouch had caused her to slide down it. "Because I can do it myself. You're not going to be there next time. The next time this happens."

His mouth pressed into a firm line, but he didn't argue, continuing to pat around the worst of her cuts and bruises. He heaved a big sigh. "Man, Dom's gonna have a stroke when he sees you. With my luck he's gonna blame me, and Marcus is going to take his friggin' side, and Cole... If we're really lucky, they'll get down off those high horses and admit they're going to kill him."

"I hate this." Her gaze rolled off to the side, toward the fuzzy lights on the ceiling. It felt like a wad of cotton got stuck in her head, and she could edge around it, but she couldn't completely clear it out.

"What?"

"You guys. I don't want you to act different because I'm a weak little girl. I'm not. I'm not going to keep letting this happen to me."

"They're like that. If it weren't you, it'd be something else," he said, reaching out to wipe her cheek.

Chelsea caught his hand, squeezing it. "You're not," she said, catching his eyes with hers. "You don't clean up guys in the bathroom after they get the shit kicked out of them. Guys are expected to fix their own problems."

He sighed, suddenly looking tired again. "Most guys get into fights because they're asking for it. Trust me. I've spent some _quality_ time bleeding all over myself in a bathroom. Nine times out of ten, it was my own fault." He blew out a frustrated breath, like he didn't have the words for what he was trying to tell her. He continued, looking down at the floor, "And you're not a guy. I mean, come on. Wouldn't you get tired of interacting with the same sex day in and day out? It's always the same _shit_ all the time. Sometimes it's nice to spend five minutes with someone who isn't gunning for my nuts, and might happen to need a little help opening a beer once in a while."

"I want to be treated the same," she insisted, quietly determined.

"Well, we want to treat you like a girl. It makes us feel useful, and manly--so suck it up," he ordered brusquely. Finally pulling his hand from her weak grip, he placed his wet, bloody shirt on the lip of the sink. He used both hands to gently tilt her head, making contact only with his fingertips, studying her pupil reactions and moving a single finger back and forth in front of her face to see if she could follow it. "Besides, how can I check out your ass if I act like you're one of the guys?"

Chelsea joked on a laugh. "Baird, you ornery bastard," she mumbled. "Quit treating me like an invalid. That's an order." There was no bite in her words, and she continued to cooperate with his examination.

"You, giving me orders? That's _adorable_."

Chelsea pointed at the floor. "Give me twenty, Corporal," she wheezed.

"Not unless you slap on a skin-tight leather skirt and stand over me with a stiletto boot planted between my shoulder blades, _ma'am_."

Now there was an image her brain wouldn't let go any time soon, even in her groggy state. "Is that how Marcus does it when he drops you?" she asked, raising a contemplative eyebrow.

Baird snorted, looking a bit impressed that she'd gone there. "In your dreams, smart-ass."

"I outranked him too, you know. I_ could_ make him do a hundred up-downs in drag, if you want."

He winced at the thought. "Uh, now I'm going to have to scrub out my brain with soap. You're perverse when you get smacked in the head, you know that?" He took her hands, helping her stand. "You feel up to walking?"

Chelsea gripped his forearms tight for balance. She did feel a bit woozy, and her balance went all out of whack as her hearing came back in one ear and faded out in the other. "Is there a second, less potentially embarrassing option?"

"Well, I could _carry you_, princess," he said, being snarky.

"I'm not sure that's less embarrassing. And I'm not giving that asshole the satisfaction, and all that good stuff. I'm walking out on my own," she insisted, taking a step toward the door. The world tilted sideways, and she found herself leaning against a wall before she made it four steps.

Baird encircled her wrist with two fingers, stooping so he could pull her arm over his shoulders, wrapping one of his large arms around her hips. "I doubt he left the building conscious, so I think you're still one up on him. Just try not to walk into any door frames. And once again, if you feel like throwing up..."

"Why do you think I'm going to throw up on you?" Chelsea asked, allowing him to lead her out of the bathroom.

Baird shuttered. "Let's just say I've taken one too many chopper rides with Cole."

A large number of people had gathered in the hallway leading back toward her office. They were speaking amongst themselves instead of dispersing. Most of them were women--the men hired by Bender Fields typically worked on crews. Chelsea tried to lean a little lighter on Baird's shoulder because there was no way they'd negotiate the crowded hall side-by-side. As they approached, a few workers looked up and saw her. Silence pressed down on all of them, and then a woman Chelsea recognized from upper management started clapping. Others turned to see what was going on, and soon many of them also began to put their hands together in applause.

"What's going on?" Chelsea mumbled.

Baird carefully slipped from beneath her arm, sliding behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders for guidance. "You ever heard the story of David and Goliath?" he murmured in her ear.

"Yeah."

"Well, in real life, _usually_ Goliath just kicks the shit out of David, and looking at you, they're shocked that _you_ happen to be the exception."

"David had a weapon. I really did get the crap beaten out of me."

"Well, keep quiet about that, and try not to trip. It's not very heroic."

Chelsea was unsteady on her feet, and she was kind of glad when Baird snapped "Hands to yourself, pal!" at a tall spindly guy from accounting who tried to pat her on the shoulder. She didn't know how to react to the applause and kind words--most of it flew over her head, unheard. When they finally reached the end of the hall, Baird pushed open the door to the stairwell for her, scooping her up once it closed behind them, one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back.

"What're you doing?" Chelsea asked, grabbing him around the neck.

"If you could see your own pathetic attempts at walking in a straight line, you'd understand," he informed her, easily making his way down the steps even while holding her.

It took her a minute to realize he still didn't have a shirt on. Chelsea let her cheek rest against his bare shoulder, directly over the jagged scars etched into his skin. "You're nice," she observed.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously--don't. To anyone. If you do, I'll hurt you."

"Uh huh."

"I'm serious."

"He said, as he carried me down the stairs, shirtless with muscles rippling..." her words dissolved into giggles. "They probably used to make porn that started out like this."

The look he gave her mixed skepticism with curiosity. "What do _you_ know about porn?"

The grin she put on would leave him wondering, but she purposely dodged the question. "Don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone. I promise. I'm sworn to confidentiality."

"I'm not a patient."

"And I'm not actually a doctor. I'm a triage medic. I offer confidentiality to all the guys who patch me up. It's professional courtesy."

* * *

_AN: Thanks so much for all the awesome reviews, especially to the anon reviewers I can't respond to directly. You all rock:-D I wrote this scene a long time ago, originally planning to put it earlier in the story. Hopefully it showed that I've spent more time on it. I participate in a lot of martial arts, so writing fight scenes can be difficult for me. I want to describe in detail what the character is doing, but it has to flow too. Hope I found a happy medium here. Let me know if you liked/disliked how the fight turned out, and opinions on the scene that came after are very welcome too;-)_


	17. Chapter 17

_AN: Sorry it took so long to get this up. I just started the new job, and the commute's a killer. Plus they keep me much busier, which makes the day go faster, but leaves no time for fanfic during the day:-) Anyway, I know this chapter is short, but the next is longer and basically complete. I wanted to split it this way because the next chapter is all very Baird-centric and flows best as one piece. Anyway, hope you all enjoy it and let me know what your thoughts are. I'm still trying to finish the next chapter, and depending on what I hear about this one, it might shape those last few paragraphs. _

* * *

Dom pulled a frozen sponge out of the freezer, wrapping it in a thin rag before making his way over to the couch. He settled on the edge of the cushions, handing Chelsea the icepack to put under her head. She'd been laying there dozing ever since Baird brought her home. Damon had showered and crashed on her cot behind the curtains, catching some sleep before his shift.

"So you pulled him into guard, huh?" Dom said. He had a difficult time keeping his features schooled when he looked at her. It was hard for some guys to see a woman get beat up, and in spite of his best efforts, Chelsea suspected Dom was one of those guys.

Dom had overtaken Baird and Chelsea during their slow climb up the eight flights of stairs to the apartment. Even when he first saw her, Dom made jokes and tried his best to put her at ease, but those expressive dark eyes gave him away. Seeing her beat to hell haunted him, perhaps reminding him of someone else in his life who suffered mal-treatment.

Chelsea nodded gently, closing her eyes and letting the soothing coolness of the icepack sink deep into her skull, numbing her throbbing headache. "Yeah. Growing up I took a lot of self-defense classes with my brothers. They were offered all the time on base at Old Jacinto. Some Islanders stationed there taught us the eastern arts, but my brother Tate taught me about grappling. He was a commando--and a really outstanding athlete."

"Oh yeah?" he said, intrigued. "What group was he with?"

"Tenth Commando Forces. I don't know where they were based. Their HQ moved a lot, and he wasn't allowed to talk about it. We didn't see him much in the months before he died. We're not even sure where he died, or the circumstances. One of his buddies brought us his tags. I have them, buried deep in a box in my mom's room." Chelsea swallowed hard, taking a deep breath. "She doesn't remember they're dead most days," she admitted, her voice nearly cracking.

"Your mother?"

"Yeah. She doesn't remember any of them have died," Chelsea said, keeping her eyes closed. Strangely, it was easier to talk about these sensitive subjects in darkness--it felt less like leaving her own head. "Sometimes she remembers dad is gone. He died within the first year after E-Day. But sometimes I go visit her and she thinks we're still a happy family living just off base back in Old Jacinto. She's mechanical, like Baird. Never sewn a stitch in her life, but a couple months ago she started making me a dress for a senior year dance. A _dance._ I grew up in a _barracks_. My brother recruited me to ferry light armor trucks around the base when I was ten. When I got good enough at driving, I started doing short runs with convoys when mom didn't have anything for me to do in engineering. By twelve I was putting in ten hour days on the road," she said, exasperated. "I n_ever_ had the time to go to school and be a girl who wore dresses and went to dances. Even if I'd had the time, it wasn't me. My mother should know that."

Dom was silent for a long time. For a minute she thought maybe he'd left, but then she felt him shift next to her on the couch. "She might know that, deep down. But it sounds like that's not the life she wanted for you, Chelsea. After our kids died, my wife kind of lost it. I mean, it wasn't totally out of the blue--she had small bouts of depression before that, but losing them broke her. We tried therapy and medications, but she kept fading away from everything. Eventually Maria didn't know what was real anymore. She wanted them to be alive so bad. So, in her mind, they were."

From the sound of his voice she could tell he still felt that pain--just as raw and searing as living it. Dom knew many of the same heartaches the war had burdened on her shoulders, and a few she could never fathom. How strong must he be? Losing his children, his family, his wife. From the sound of it, the years hadn't even begun to heal his wounds. He walked around with them gaping open. Yet, he never gave up. Chelsea was sure she would've cracked under the same weight.

"It's worse than the ones who've died," she said. "I understand my brothers are dead, I _can't_ understand why my mom isn't herself anymore. I think the grief of losing them broke her, but I'm still here." Chelsea's voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, feeling a hot tear escape from the corner of her eye and run back into her ear. A shuttering breath left her. "_I_ _need my mom._ But she's just--gone. She left me. Even though I do everything for her, she's not coming back."

With the palm of her hand, she rubbed hard at her eyes, throwing sparks across the backs of her eyelids. In spite of herself, she sniffled. A good cry would be nice but, as always, she could only scratch the surface of her grief. There was a whole well of tears buried somewhere deep inside her, literally overflowing. She could feel the pressure of it, seeking any small chink to flow out of. No matter how she tried, a shield of numbness separated her from feeling all that pain.

She couldn't break through it, even though she wanted to sometimes.

Dom's hand found her shoulder, and he squeezed reassuringly. Deep in her chest she felt achingly hollow, and he knew it. He knew exactly what that felt like. God, it must've been hell for him, losing everything but his wife, and then watching her slip away into mental illness. No wonder he'd been so reluctant to say anything when they first met in session. He'd been down the therapy road. He knew how little power a therapist had to mend the mind. Chelsea opened her eyes, and even in the dim lighting from the street lamps, she could see the silver tear streaks on his cheeks.

With much effort, she sat up, hugging him from the side. His arm wrapped around her waist. Besides the hugs she exchanged with her mom during visits, this was the first affectionate embrace Chelsea had experienced in years. It was safe and undemanding--like family. Every time Chelsea hugged her mom, it brought some comfort, but also served as a sharp reminder that she had someone depending on her, and no one to lean on.

This was thankfully free of guilt and expectation. And poor Dom. He still had Marcus, but considering the Sergeant was so introverted, she suspected the two of them didn't talk much about the people they'd loved and lost.

They sat quietly like that for a long time. Dom shed a few more tears in silence, and Chelsea wished she could join him, noting he didn't bother to wipe the tear trails from his face. He was so strong, it didn't bother him to break down once in a while. Sometimes she felt if she could cry long and hard enough, it would all start to feel better. She knew grief couldn't prop a person up, but damn was it hard to let go of.

"Teach me what you know about grappling?" she asked softly, when his tears had mostly dried on their own. "And knives. Anything I could use in a fight."

He nodded, letting her go to wipe at his nose. "Yeah, no problem," he said, no evidence of the tears he'd shed in his voice. "Gotta teach you to defend yourself better, or else you're going to end up looking like Marcus. Notice _I'm _still pretty," he teased.

Chelsea smiled. It helped, knowing soon she'd learn how to handle herself better without a firearm. Maybe being proactive would help keep the nightmares at bay.

"So where are Cole and Marcus?" she asked. "Figured they'd be home by now."

"They will be," Dom said. "I'm cooking tonight, so they won't miss dinner. Lazy asses," he muttered, leaning over to grab the icepack from where it had fallen on the couch cushions, and placing it against the base of her skull. He suddenly seemed more distant, and she couldn't detect the reason. "They're probably working out. We've got a place where we do that."

"You sure they didn't go after that piece of shit Stranded?" Baird asked from behind the curtain.

Chelsea nearly jumped at hearing his voice, cursing under her breath. She hadn't realized he was awake.

"If it were just me that might be the case, but we're talking about Marcus. He believes in the justice system."

"Oh, right," Baird acquiesced. "I always forget he's weird that way, considering how thoroughly the system fucked him over."

"No kidding," Dom grumbled. It was the first time Chelsea had heard the two men agree so readily on anything.

"And if you ever tell Fenix I said that, I'll kick you in the balls."

"Not if I kick you first, asshole."

_That _was more like the Dom and Baird she knew.

* * *

Chelsea woke a couple hours later to someone pinching her nose shut, momentarily preventing her from breathing. She snorted, instinctively pulling away from the pressure.

"Good. You're awake. Now sit up," Damon ordered, taking a knee in front of her. His speech was slightly altered because he was chewing. He had a plate in one hand, the last remnant of a hamburger resting at the center. The smell of fried beef spurred her awake, in spite of her desperate desire to remain within the pleasant depths of deep sleep.

With his free hand, Baird gripped her elbow and forced her to sit up.

The lights were off in the living room, but everything still felt too bright. Chelsea squinted at Damon's face, groaning like a groggy teenager getting pulled out of bed early in the morning. Her tongue felt too thick for curses, or else she would've mumbled a few choice phrases.

"Bitch, bitch. You'll feel better in a minute." Then, to someone else, Baird said, "You guys are going to have to wake her up every couple hours tonight." He started to take her through the currently too-familiar follow-my-finger-with-your-eyes routine. "Make sure she's aware and oriented."

Cole took a knee next to Damon, examining her face for himself. The former baller wore a ragged set of grey PT sweats with a faded COG symbol outlined in a darker grey on the front. His collar was soaked with sweat, although she couldn't detect the familiar acrid smell of male sweat. Maybe her nasal passages were too swollen? Marcus stood next to Cole, dressed similarly, arms crossed over his chest, looking down on her. Neither of them showed any signs of squeamishness at the sight of her battered features. They didn't grimace or flinch, and she found that comforting.

Cole whistled, impressed. "Ain't gonna lie to you, Shrink-Lady. Before the war I knew a few thrashball stars who would've run away crying if they'd taken a beating like that. They would've been like _'oh, mommy, the bad man hurt me!_'" he said, giving her a smile and a soft nudge on the shoulder. "Our Shrink-Lady's _tuff."_

Although they seemed to take note of Damon's rapid-fire instructions, Chelsea got the impression that Cole and Marcus were taking a moment to crowd around and admire her plethora of injuries. They _were_ boys after all.

"Looks like he caught you full on there," Marcus said, pointing to part of her face just above her left eye that felt particularly tender and puffy. "Glancing blows here and here," he pointed to her left cheek bone and the right side of her chin, respectively. "You're lucky he didn't break your jaw, or your eye socket."

Chelsea blinked sleepily. Her left eye was drooping, nearly swollen shut. When she reached up to scratch an itch on her cheek, her fingernails came away custed with dried blood. The deepest scratches where Terrance had raked her face still oozed. The icepack Dom had given her melted long ago, and when her hand found it lodged between the end cusion and the couch arm she placed the damp sponge against her aching head, but instead of relieving the pain it mostly just made her hair soggy.

"Yeah, the asshole got his shots in," Damon said, finishing up his examination and stuffing the last of his dinner in his mouth. He got up, heading for the sink with his plate. "But he didn't exactly get off scot-free."

"You're going to look pretty interesting for a while," Cole informed her. "You'll probably get some nice color with the bruising. Who knows, that knuckle print on your forehead might be permanent," he teased.

Chelsea groaned piteously, holding her head with both hands. Typically she didn't care much about looks. Her face struck her as shockingly average. Not too thin, not too pudgy. Nose a fraction too fleshy for beauty, or even to be considered cute. Still, that didn't mean she desired to be _less _attractive.

Hearing Cole's last comment, Baird sauntered over after dumping his plate in the sink and smacked the large black man on the shoulder. "_Now_ who doesn't know how to talk to girls?" he asked, making for the door.

Her eyes followed him. After getting a solid block of sleep in, Damon looked a little less weary, and it was past time for him to leave for his shift.

Baird's eyes found hers, right before he strolled out the door. Just a casual glance over his shoulder, and then he disappeared. It was the second time she'd caught him looking since they'd arrived home. Whether he did it out of concern or casual admiration of the female form, she still couldn't read him. She had no idea if it meant anything to him--or to her, for that matter.

_If he's still admiring me after I had my face rearranged, he might be a keeper,_ she thought, sarcastically. Then again, guys liked injuries. Maybe the glances stemmed from morbid fascination.

Cole shrugged, patting Chelsea on the knee. "I was just teasing, Shrink-Lady. None of it's gonna be permanent. You'll be pretty as ever in no time."

"Speaking of recovery time. What's she going to do about work?" Dom asked, standing by the stove and pushing four hamburgers around the bottom of a frying pan. He must've fried a burger for Baird earlier. "We can't exactly go in and tell management she's staying at our place until she heals up. It would get back to Richtner eventually."

"I have to go," Chelsea insisted. "If I don't, they'll probably replace me. I need this job."

"Chelsea. You can't walk up or down stairs without help," Dom pointed out. "If you're not ready, no one's going to expect you to go to work after what happened to you."

She scowled, but couldn't argue. Getting up to the apartment had been a nightmare. She'd started out attempting to climb on her own, but between the muscle weakness and vertigo she'd only made it up a couple flights. Baird carried her the rest of the way, stopping for a break every now and then--more for her sake than his. Dom overtook them on the seventh floor.

Marcus sighed, reaching up to pull off his bandanna. The hair beneath was tousled and dark with sweat, more evidence that he and Cole had gone to work out instead of coming straight home. He scratched at his head, blue eyes distant. "At least it's Friday. If you're not good to go by Monday we'll figure something out then. For now, your only job is to heal up," he determined.

Chelsea nodded reluctantly. If she felt better in a couple days she could always mount a fresh protest.

"In the meantime, we're going to have to find a way to document your injuries," Marcus continued. "A camera would be helpful."

"Why?" she asked.

"COG MPs took the Stranded asshole into custody," Marcus explained. "They'll probably have some sort of hearing when they get around to it, and knowing the COG, by then your face will probably have healed up. It'll be helpful to have some evidence when you testify."

Yeah, that made sense.

"You okay with testifying, Chelsea?" Dom asked. "If you don't want to see him again..."

Chelsea turned to look at Dom over her shoulder. "I can do it," she said, swallowing thickly. "It'll probably be worse for him to see me, don't you think?" she asked, a small false smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "That knee to the groin was perfect. The best shot I've ever made in my life."

Truthfully, she never wanted to see him again. Not for any reason. But the ripples of fear inspired by the thought of seeing him were manageable. If she didn't testify, a worse experience would certainly befall the next female to cross that man's path. That she couldn't live with.

Cole smiled, using the couch for leverage to heave onto his feet. "I'll bet you got him good, Shrink-Lady," he said, giving her one last shoulder-nudge in passing. "Wish I could've seen his face when you got done with him."

"Baird helped," Chelsea reminded, careful to not over-represent her abilities.

Marcus scoffed, retying the bandanna over his hair. "Did he trip and knock heads with the guy? Because that would put anyone's lights out."

Chelsea admonished him with a look. She wasn't in the mood for anyone to emasculate her rescuer. Not yet, anyway. From her angle, Baird had looked fucking fantastic when he threw that punch. Perfect timing and technique, with emphasis on the good timing.

Instead of appearing chastened by her glare, Marcus raised one eyebrow, as if he found confirmation in her choice of answer. She felt strangely caught, although she could think of no reason for it. Had he baited her?It was difficult to think of Marcus as manipulative, but on some level she felt like he'd just given one of her strings a subtle tug to see which of her limbs would jerk in response.

What she wouldn't give to spend five minutes behind those cool blue eyes.

"Hey, Marcus. Grab some plates, would ya?" Dom called.

The Sergeant slowly got himself moving in the direction of the kitchen, carrying on like nothing had happened.

Then again, Chelsea had no idea what the hell had happened.


	18. Chapter 18

_AN: Haven't had a chance to edit this one as much, because I wanted to roll it out and get impressions so I can finish the next chapter this weekend. Once again, keep in mind that Baird's back story is AU in this fic. Let me know what you guys think of the revelations in this chapter. I hope they're good. Also, be warned that there's some borderline mature content in this chapter. I don't think it's too racy for television, so I think I'm good with the teen rating, but you never know.  
_

* * *

"I think he's dead," Chris Baird decided.

Damon grimaced sourly at his older brother's stupidity. Even at age twelve, he knew exactly what he was looking at. "He's not dead, you retard," he said, disdainful of his brother's slowness, and the unsightly mess that was their stepfather--passed out on the living room couch after a hard night out.

The man stank of urine, smoke and stale beer. He'd lost consciousness while half propped up at one end of the couch and the cigarette he'd held on his lip had fallen onto his chest, burning a hole through t-shirt and skin without waking him.

The red track marks, ranging from fresh to old on his forearms told the tale. This man lived life hard. One of these days they'd probably find him dead on the couch. Unfortunately, that day hadn't come yet.

The two blond boys stood side-by-side in silence for a moment. With an extra year of growth, Chris had almost an inch on Damon, but his build was lankier, more like their mother. Damon had inherited their father's build. Otherwise they looked much the same. Similar facial structures meant they had the same gaunt, hollow-cheeked look brought on by malnutrition. They both had pale complexions that would tan only a few shades darker during the summer, when they spent most of their time wandering the streets during the day-light hours--finding pick-up games at the courts, among other things.

When people met the Damon and his older brother, they tended to gravitate toward Chris. He could put on a show for people. He had a pleasant smile, complete with dimples, and he showed it off a lot. Damon had a constant furrow in his brow that rarely budged. Where Chris charmed people with his smile, Damon held them at bay with sarcasm and bitterness.

"Mom's got two shifts at the restaurant," Chris pointed out. "She'd never know if we skipped school today." He hadn't even changed out of the shorts and t-shirt he wore to bed. He'd had no delusions of going to school that day.

Damon, on the other hand, was dressed in a pair of Chris's hand-me-down jeans with the knees torn out. The jeans were just barely held on his narrow hips by a belt he'd drilled extra holes into so he could cinch it tight enough to keep his pants on. An extra-large army surplus shirt hung on him like a tent, and a pair of grungy tennis shoes were the only footwear he owned. He would go to school, dressed in rag-tag clothing, and he would get made fun of. But he would go--wielding his sharp tongue like a machete, chopping a path through the wild jungle of junior high.

Damon turned around without answering his brother. Their mother, Julia, had a job as a waitress--for now--and she'd been working insane hours to keep a roof over their heads. By next week she'd probably decide the world was out to get her, quit her job, and get lost in the same haze as her deadbeat husband until the landlord came over and threatened to evict them all and call Child Protective Services. Then the cycle would start all over again. She'd never get ahead, and it wouldn't be because she let assholes like her current husband live with them and suck them dry. Oh no--it could never be _her_ fault.

She couldn't look in a mirror and see where the problems stemmed from. She just blamed everything on the rest of the world, or Damon and Chris for not helping her enough.

Grabbing his backpack off the back of a chair in the kitchen, Damon stoically made for the door. The bag was halfway open, and had been rifled through, so he suspected his step-father had probably made off with his lunch money during the night. He knew he'd never see it again.

The zipper on the bag was broken, and he had to tug and jerk to get the old book bag shut again. He was so sick of people stealing his stuff. If it wasn't his step-father, then it was Chris. Worst of all, his mother never believed him. Chris was her favorite. Around mom, his older brother would throw on a smile and no matter what he did, he got away with it. Chris reminded their mother of her late husband, their real dad, who died when Damon was four. Damon's biting sarcasm and unflagging attempts to force her to right her sinking ship of a life reminded Julia Baird of her own father.

Damon's grandfather had passed away just a few years ago, and ever since his mom had picked up speed in her downward spiral.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Chris asked, taking a seat at the kitchen table and putting his bare feet up on it. The bottoms of his feet were dirty, but it didn't matter much. Their step-father had ashed his cigarettes all over the table anyway, leaving the ash tray centerpiece clean. There were very few surfaces in the house Damon would consider eating off of. "Why do you like school so much?"

Chris only liked the social aspects of school--and with most of his friends dropping out, he'd started ragging on Damon more than ever for going willingly.

"I don't like it!" Damon lashed out, angry. Life shouldn't be like this. Every day the same shit, or new shit. Completely out of his control, and with no structure or sanctuary. Except school. School was boring--maddeningly tedious--but at least there he knew what to expect. "I just want to get out of this fucking hole someday, all right? Is that so hard for you to understand?"

"And do what?" Chris jeered.

"And be an engineer, asshole. Like grandpa was."

"Whatever. You're not smart like him. Shit, I'm smarter than you are," he said dismissively, laughing to himself at the absurdity of his little brother becoming anything worthwhile. Chris wouldn't know ambition if it bit him on the ass and gave him rabies.

Damon walked right up to where his brother sat. He didn't have room for doubt in his life. When his older brother tried to knock him down a peg, he dealt with it the same way he handled his own fear. Quickly, efficiently, and without mercy. "I'm going to be an engineer," he said, clearly challenging Chris to refute it.

"You'll never be shit."

Damon kicked the closest leg of Chris's chair. Tipped back on two legs, it wasn't exactly hard to get it to fall over backward. His older brother cracked his head on the edge of the counter behind him when he fell, landing in a pile on the floor and bleeding from a fresh gash at the base of his skull.

"I'm going to be an engineer," Damon repeated coldly, standing over his brother, both fists clenched. "And no one's going to stop me." He knew he'd pay for this transgression later but, still reveling in the simmering heat of his anger, he didn't care.

Most of the time the world beat Damon down, and his brother often threw his weight behind that trend. But once in a while, Damon did claim a little control over his own destiny. Every once in a while he paid his brother back.

Clutching at the back of his head, Chris curled up in a ball on the floor, his eyes screwed shut. His older brother acted like a street-smart tough but, Damon knew when it came down to it, Chris was a pussy. Not that Damon was immune to fear. He wandered through each day scared half shitless, but instead of shutting him down, fear got his mouth going, and then his blood pumping until he got angry enough to fight his way through. Chris was different. His first reaction was to incite sympathy.

If Damon waited, he'd probably see a few tears squeeze from Chris's tightly closed eyes.

But if he waited, he'd be late for school. One more tardy would earn him a detention.

Damon stepped over his brother and walked out the front door.

* * *

Baird jerked awake when a hand shook his forearm. He'd passed out face-down on the bar, his head resting in the crook of his elbow.

"Hey, buddy. Last call was twenty minutes ago. I gotta close up."

A small warm hand came to rest on the back of his neck. An intimate touch, by an unfamiliar set of hands.

"I got him, mister," a girl said. She had auburn red hair--probably dyed--and she smelled like flowery soap. She wrapped both arms around him, too weak to actually lever him off the bar stool, but short enough to serve as a crutch while he figured out how his legs worked. Once awake, he found his brain function was still relatively good, but his motor skills were shot to hell.

The two of them stumbled out of the bar together, and the girl laughed at every near-collision they encountered on the way. Damon vaguly remembered her flitting around him and Cole earlier in the evening, before the Thrashball star disappeared for the duration. Damon had figured Red disappeared with Cole and the rest of the female troup they'd collected over the past several hours. That's usually how it went. Girls threw themselves at both of them, but they wanted Cole. His star power and energy drew them like moths to a flame.

The cool, fresh breeze outside the smoky bar helped him reorient, and soon Baird was walking under his own power. The girl still held on, both arms around his waist, acting drunk and off balance in her dress and heels. This act probably worked well for her most evenings. Hell, it had probably worked well for her at least once or twice already that night. It didn't surprise him much, when she steered their course into an alley half a block down from the bar.

She was young and thin--starved thin, not muscular. Someone had given her money to throw away on hair dye, makeup, clothes and perfume. Probably her pimp.

Out of sight from the street, she pushed him against a wall, her hands pinning his shoulders against the brick facade, and kissed him. She smiled, and pressed so close he could see she was older than she looked. Slight crow's feet at the corners of her hazel eyes gave her away. This woman was too old to be a giggling girl who'd had one drink too many.

"Tell me what you want," she cajoled, kissing him again.

One of his arms wrapped around her waist, his hand splaying low on the small of her back, just above her ass, and he kissed her back. His other hand was occupied holding onto a fifth of whiskey he hadn't let go of even when he briefly passed out. Even though warning bells were going off in his head, he found it difficult to resist the temptation of a warm, willing female body. What all did he tell this woman? Did she know he was an engineer? Did she stick around because she was shrewd enough to figure out he had more money than Cole?

If she got pregnant, she'd have his balls in a vice. All she had to do was submit an order for paternity testing, and once confirmed, the COG would automatically dock his pay for child support.

But, if she was a professional, she should be willing to forego traditional sex. It would just cost him extra.

Baird could see his breath in the chill night air while she worked at sucking on his neck.

"You can tell me," she said softly. "Don't be embarrassed."

Embarrassed, he was not. He paused only to drunkenly consider the quandary of: What did he want?

_A condom,_ the smart-aleck side of him inserted.

Then an image flashed across his mind's eye, unexpected and intensely arousing. He imagined holding up a young blond girl--pressing her back against this same brick wall. Her legs wrapped tight around his hips, drawing him close so his stomach pressed against hers.

For one second, he could imagine every intimate detail, from her fingernails digging into his shoulders to the shocked pleasure on her face. He could almost hear his name falling from her lips in a soft moan and it made his whole body tingle, standing every single hair on end and leaving his heart hammering in his chest like a bass drum, with an echoing beat pulsing at his groin.

He'd done girls in that exact same position, and with all of them it had been more quick and dirty than hot and satisfying. It never sent the blood rushing south with such intensity like this imagining, because they'd all had an agenda. During the course of the war, sex had becoming nothing but a power struggle. Entrapment from the female perspective, and a show of primitive domination for many males.

But damn, what wouldn't he give to see her like that? Her eyes rolling back into her head and wanting nothing but to feel him deep inside her. He hadn't run across a good looking young woman who just wanted to share something pleasurable with someone she cared for since before the war, during his mid-teens. The Breeding Laws had destroyed that sort of relationship between men and women.

Fuck, he wanted that. He physically ached for it.

He was also piss drunk and it had been a long time. He'd probably ache for anything remotely curvy and feminine.

Red slipped her hand down his chest and stomach, teasing just above his belt line. Before she went any lower, and could start charging him for it, he stopped her. Grabbed her wrist and ceased the descent.

"I can't tonight," he said, shaking the bottle in his hand in front of her face. "Got too much of this in me."

"Oh, come on," she said, pressing closer, her hip brushing against his groin, making him jump. "I can get you there."

"I'm sure you can. I'm just--not interested." He quickly disengaged, not giving her a chance to change his mind. It wouldn't be a hard task at that point.

After stumbling out of that shadowed alley in the bar district, Damon started for home. It wasn't exactly a pleasant walk. He was drunk as hell, and horny as hell, but he had no one to bitch at, so he tried to make the best of it.

* * *

"Sixty eight bottles of beer on the wall, sixty eight bottles of beer," Baird sang, off-key. "Take one down." He should've gone home after shift. But it was Friday--technically Saturday morning--and Cole liked going out to the bars on Fridays. The big former Thrashball player still liked to party, and most of the city loved to party with him all night long. On the rare occasions Baird decided to go out with Cole after work on Fridays, the two of them never paid for their own drinks. Girls threw themselves at them. Sometimes they got into fights. "Pass it around. Sixty seven bottles of beer on the wall."

Sometimes they ended up in the drunk tank.

Great times, to be sure.

Baird was walking home on shadowy, quiet streets in the last dark hour before dawn, walking a tight rope on the yellow lines down the center of the road. Cole had snaked his keys hours ago, before disappearing with his lil-miss-hott-stuff of the evening. Not that it mattered. Damon had no idea where he'd parked his truck. He probably wouldn't even find it until Sunday.

"Take one down, pass it around." Against his will, he hopped on one foot away from the yellow line before finally coming back to center again and placing his next foot down. "Sixty nine bottles of beer on the wall." He still had the open fifth in one hand, and he took a hit from it, completly losing track of the line momentarily. Just the act of throwing back his head to drink nearly set him on his ass.

It took a while to realize there was someone walking next to him. When Damon finally glanced over, he observed the young soldier shadowing him with blurry, bloodshot eyes. The first thing he did was check the insignia on the kid's shoulder.

"You're a private," Baird noted, leaning close to see the name stamped into the chest plate. "Private Solice. Well, damn. That's a relief," he said. "If you were a sergeant I might be in trouble--if I weren't currently a private citizen..." He seemed a momentarily confused by his own logic, but instead of puzzling it out he took another hit from his bottle.

"You a corporal?" Private Solice surmised.

The kid was probably eighteen or nineteen, and he had a strong South Island accent. Reminded Baird a little of the way Tai used to speak, but this kid was more naturalized. He had a couple tats on his forearms, but no crazy stuff on his face. He walked next to Damon like it was no big thing. Just company on his patrol route. Damon felt a little under-dressed, trooping along next to a Gear without armor or a Lancer.

"I used to be a corporal. Now I work for a living instead of getting my ass shot at," Baird informed him, taking another swig. Even in a city flowing with booze, decent liquor cost money. Well, it would've cost money if he'd had to pay for it. Regardless, Damon had no intention of letting a single drop get confiscated. Even if it meant getting blackout drunk.

"Well, Corporal, I hate to tell you this, but there's a checkpoint straight ahead on this street. And the sergeant manning it is kind of a dick."

Baird just laughed. And laughed.

These days every god-forsaken pimple-faced buck sergeant in the COG thought he was a dick--until he met a real ball-buster like Baird, or Fenix when the former sergeant got on his period.

Solice shrugged at his odd reaction. "This guy, he just earned his stripes, see. He didn't get much action during the war--in the field, or in the bedroom. He's got a little bit of a chip on his shoulder, and some brown right here," the kid said, tapping his own nose to indicate exactly where. "Keep going this way, and he'll have you detained at the city holding facility until you sober up. Won't be a good night for you, brotha. We got a Stranded in the tank. We're detaining him until the boys at Fort Quierjo get around to collecting him. He's a big, nasty looking 'motha, and he's had a bad day already."

Baird's laughing died down to snickers. Quierjo was the new center of Sera's justice department. Prisoners were housed in the operable parts of the old military prison, and trials and tribunals were held there.

What a weird day. Then again, the events of the past week had pretty much lobbed together into a single day, interrupted by patchy bouts of sleep here and there.

"I gotta go this way. This road is the only straight shot to the new constructs," Baird decided out loud, his feet never pausing from carrying him forward.

"You could go half a block down and slip through. No one on patrol would bother you," Solice told him.

"A half block, huh? Pal, right now I'm not sure what I'd do if I had to walk around a parked car. That's just a little too much fine motor control for me to process right now, all right?." He glanced down at the nearly empty bottle in his hand. "You know, they told me this was pure shine whiskey, but I'm pretty sure they diluted it with gasoline, and who knows what the hell else."

Solice nodded sagely. It wasn't uncommon these days, especially among some of the South Island neighborhoods, for shine to get spiked with all kinds of interesting things. Many of which could make a man go blind, or loose feeling in various body parts. Earlier, Baird couldn't feel his legs. His teeth were still numb. "Did you drink that all by yourself?" the kid asked.

"I had help earlier working on it. You know the Cole Train?"

"Hell yeah. The Cole Train was my dad's favorite player, before the war."

"Yeah, yeah, he's such a great guy. He's got great hands, or so the ladies tell me. And he's quick. Earlier tonight he was sitting next to me, having a couple drinks. I looked away, then looked back, and he was gone. Left with two, maybe three girls. Who knows? Gone in two seconds. Then I got up to go to the bathroom, and I couldn't feel my legs. Got up from the bar and fell flat on my face. That's when I started to suspect there might be something in the whiskey--other than, you know, whiskey." With that said, Baird killed the fifth, tilting his head so far back he nearly toppled over. He vaguely felt Solice's firm grip on his elbow steadying him.

Up ahead, a check piont station, lit from within, came into view. A couple MPs stood outside in full armor, smoking and shooting the shit. Their Sergeant sat inside, out of the cold night wind.

_Fenix would've been out on patrol with his men, _some dark, traitorous, uncharacteristically sensible part of his mind noted.

When the two of them approached the checkpoint, Baird obviously unsteady on his feet, the Sergeant waddled out from his little guard shack to meet them. In spite of food rationing, the sergeant was a short, heavy-set, red-cheeked kid. He was the first Gear Baird had seen in two decades with more bulk around the middle than his plate armor could comfortably contain.

The two MPs standing around talking barely spared them a second glance. They were probably either seasoned 'privates' or kids. Either way, they didn't care if some shit-faced asshole walked past them in the middle of the night, so long as he didn't bother them.

The Sergeant held up a hand, the gesture meant to stop Baird from going any farther forward.

"Good luck, brotha," Solice muttered under his breath, patting Damon once on the back before splitting off to continue his patrol.

"Sir, are you intoxicated?" the Sergeant asked.

"Sure am, fat ass," Baird shot back, tossing the bottle at the kid, forcing him to make a clumsy catch. "Do me a favor. Take a whiff and tell me what I was drinking," he said, pressing on toward the new district.

"Sir, I can't allow you to continue," the Sergeant insisted, indignant. He did his best to keep up and finally forced Baird to stop by placing a hand on his chest. "You're intoxicated in public."

Damon allowed himself to be stopped, and took a moment to blurrily look around at the empty street. "If this is public, then where the hell is everyone?"

The Sergeant sighed, exasperated. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

Baird angrily shoved the Sergeant's restraining arm away, sticking his index finger in the kid's face. "Man, if you call me 'sir' one more time, I'm going to punch you. I was _drafted_. I got thrown on the buzz saw over and over again and I had to work my ass off to stay alive!"

"I can't allow you to continue on in your current state."

"My current state is 'just about to kick your fat ass.' I got drunk in a bar, and when they closed they threw me into _public."_

The young Sergeant's red cheeks turned an unattractive color of near-purple, and he pursed his lips. "You're being extremely uncooperative," he spat.

_Got him._ Baird smirked, victorious. "Oh, believe me, dipshit. If you think this is extremely uncooperative, just wait until I get warmed up."

* * *

The cell door clanged shut behind Baird over an hour later, and when he looked around, he saw a very large man lying on his side on the drunk tank's only cot. He was heavy, obviously Stranded, and he looked like he'd been on the losing end of a fight with a Grinder. He watched Baird with dark eyes, puffy from trauma.

Damon cracked each knuckle on his left hand with his thumb, measuring his cellmate up.

"It's been a long time since I got a good night of sleep," Baird informed him. "You want to let me lay down on that cot for a while? Catch a few hours?"

Terrance the Asshole Stranded shook his head slowly. Maybe the bastard recognized him, or maybe he just approached every daily interaction in a manner that would likely get him killed when he finally pissed off the wrong asshole.

Satisfied with Terrance's answer, Baird's blue eyes went flat, his shoulders squared like a bull about to charge. "Yep. I was kind of hoping you'd say that," he said, moving forward with dangerous intent.

The MPs down the hall must've heard the screaming, but they didn't come running.

When Terrance lay unconscious on the floor of the cell, Baird wiped his knuckles off on his cargoes, leaving a streak of blood behind. He sat down on the edge of the bunk. "You know," he informed Terrance's unconscious form. "I get why you went for her. I do. She's young, blond, got a great ass. Not much of a rack, but it's workable. Guys like you and Richtner try to pin down a girl like that because you knew she has options. Deep down, you know she wouldn't touch you with a fifty foot pole, but you sit there like a fucking jackass and tell yourself she's got it coming."

Baird sat in silence for a long time, his back supported against the off-white brick wall. He rubbed at the fresh bruises forming on his knuckles and ran his tongue over his front teeth, momentary fascinated by the fact that he could actually feel them again.

"She's hot, but she's an officer's kid, like Fenix," he finally said, drunk and sleepy, voice low and rough from the soreness just starting to take hold at the back of his throat. He'd finally made it to the weekend, and now he was coming down with a cold. What a bitch. "And I have a feeling Santiago's decided she's too young for me. If I tried to bone her, he'd probably castrate me."

In spite of the hard wall at his back, Damon's eyes started drooping. "Shit, he's probably right," he admitted, sighing, crossing both arms over his chest for warmth and mumbling a bitterly sarcastic, "Never gonna to get laid," right before dozing off.


	19. Chapter 19

_AN: Found awesome character descriptions for all the guys for Gears 3. Found lots of cool little details I couldn't find before. Finally have heights for all the guys (although they're stingy with weight and other details.) Canon Baird is 6'1", and so is Marcus, apparently. So, of course I'm going to take what I want and tweak the rest. Sure, Baird's 6'1". Dom's 6'0". But my Marcus is taller than everyone but Cole (who's 6'4"-didn't see that so much). Take that canon! _

* * *

Chelsea woke slowly, her ears ringing, head throbbing.

_Is this a hangover?_ _Did I let Mike take me out to the bars?_

Her brother Mike was a corporal, assigned to the Jacinto motor pool. He came home every night, but he was a big drinker. He spent a lot of time out at the bars, and when he wasn't commandeering his younger sister from their mother's service to ferry vehicles around base and go out on short runs, he was recruiting her for nights out. Usually she refused, unimpressed by the crude junior NCOs her brother chose to drink with.

_Where's Mike?_

Her heart started to constrict, leaving her throat tight before her brain could shed the haze of REM sleep and remember Mike was years gone, and so was Jacinto.

Chelsea jerked, reaching for a pistol that wasn't on her hip. She tried to lift her head, the obnoxious ringing piercing through the haze of sleep and bringing her headache into sharper focus. The muscles in her neck required to lift her head off her pillow had stiffened overnight. She literally had to use both hands to physically lift her head when she sat up.

Blinking against the early morning light filtering through the curtains, Chelsea couldn't even bring herself to take a good look around. Her left eye had virtually swelled shut.

She was in a bed. A large, soft bed, in a bedroom with a distinctively male scent. Leather, gun oil, deodorant, and something unique beneath all that. Chelsea leaned over, looking over the side of the bed and finding a man sleeping on the floor. A very large man, with a very large, muscular back. It took a minute, but the reality of where she was and who she was staring at slowly wormed forward from the back of her mind.

Marcus was awake, although unmoving. He blinked slowly a couple times before finally reaching up with one hand to shut off the alarm blaring next to the bed. Then he turned over onto his back, one arm tucked behind his head. He wore his usual night-time attire-a pair of sweatpants, and nothing else. Why did he spend the night on the floor? Why was she in his room? He had his own pillow, but no blanket.

"You alive?" Marcus asked, looking up at her. He looked too alert to have just woken up, and she felt a stab of guilt at the thought.

"My head's killing me," she informed him, glancing around and realizing she had her own blankets and pillow. "And I'm not really sure how I got here."

Marcus grunted, non-committal. "It's easier to wake you every couple hours when you're in reach."

"Yeah," she agreed. "I guess so. But I thought you guys were going to switch off overnight?"

"We did. Dom took the first four hours, I took the second shift."

She did vaguely remember bouts of consciousness sprinkled between odd, twisted dreams. She even thought she remembered getting scooped up, blankets and all, and carried here. It was difficult to determine the difference between wakefulness and those dreams.

"Oh," she said, unable to meet his gaze. She fidgeted for a moment, trying to think of something to say and finally settling on, "Sorry I put you guys through this." Sure, it was nice to be taken care of, but she hated forcing them to go out of their way to help her. Chelsea hated being taken care of. What if she got used to it, and then it got yanked out from under her again? These guys weren't responsible for her.

Marcus shrugged. "Not your fault." She must've looked unconvinced, because he sighed. "If you really feel indebted, I'm sure some night Cole will need someone to hold his hair while he worships porcelain." He sounded unusually snarky.

Thinking he was kidding, Chelsea almost burst out laughing. Then she realized he was serious. "Wait. Does he really?"

Marcus nodded pointedly, as if saying _you'd better believe it_. "Ever since the war ended. He's the last star from before the war, and he's still burning bright. People line up buy him drinks. Both of them drink too much on the weekends."

Chelsea raised one eyebrow. Or, she thought she did. With her face all jacked up, it was hard to tell. "Them?"

Marcus stretched his entire body. He was tall, almost as tall as Cole, and built like a tree. Chelsea noted Marcus didn't have visible abs like Baird. He obviously had a very powerful core-his lines weren't cut like Damon's, but his stomach was flat and the curved outline of solid muscle was there, especially around the floating ribs and the obliques. Marcus was built like a fighter, and real fighters kept up just enough body fat to hide most fine definition in the mid-section-especially older fighters.

A flash of black ink caught her eye, and for the first time Chelsea noticed the prison bar-code stamped on his right shoulder, with his last name and cell block in script underneath.

It was quite a sight, to see that tall, powerful frame arch off the floor, convexing until an audible pop occured in the spinal region. Marcus twisted his hips, inspiring another pop. Chelsea winced at hearing it. Sleeping on the floor must've really sucked.

"Cole and Baird," Marcus finally clarified. "Baird gets off shift early on Saturday morning and they usually hit the town together.""Really? I mean, I can see Cole as a party guy, but Damon? I can picture him sitting on a bar stool, picking apart the process the brewer chose to make his shine."

That description must've struck Marcus as accurate, because he tilted his head to one side and nodded to himself, as if envisioning it. "He didn't go out much before he lived on his own," Marcus admitted.

Silence settled over them for a moment. Chelsea let her mind drift, gently prodding her facial injuries with her fingertips. Flakes of dry blood sluffed off onto her fingers, and when she looked at her pillow she found dark red stains and lighter outlines from clear fluid.

She attempted to refrain from assessing Marcus like a piece of meat, but restraint seemed futile. She lived in a deli, so why not check out the ribeyes on display? Feeling groggy, with the subtle pressure of a headache threatening from just behind her eyes, she was easily distracted and prone to staring. He had to notice how she kept glancing at him. Some of it actually was innocent. Her eyes were drawn by small distinguishing features, whether it be on his body or the rest of the room. She noticed he had a birth mark on the inside of his left elbow that probably faded to invisibility in the summer. He had an 'almost-outty' belly button. He kept a pistol on the table next to his bed. Even his dirty clothes were stacked neatly in a pile in the corner of the room, well out of tripping distance-did that safety concern come from Army discipline, the war, prison? All of the above?

Yep. She definitely had some attention deficit going on.

"Am I crazy or did you quiz me on multiplication tables?" Chelsea asked, brow furrowed with confusion. It disturbed her a little, that she couldn't remember Dom waking her up at all. Her memories of the night-time hours were so jumbled she had a really hard time slogging through them and determining what had been real.

Marcus made a vague affirmative sound. "Mental math tests cognition without the need to turn on any lights," he stated very matter-of-factly. "By the way, you're better at multiplication than simple addition. Off the top of your head, you know seven times twenty is a hundred forty. But apparently, five plus six is twelve."

"Yeah. Well, screw you too, Fenix," she informed him, doing her best imitation of Baird's voice and shaking a mock-angry fist at him. A snort from Marcus rewarded her efforts.

Marcus sat up, rolling his thick neck and cracking each vertebrae. "We should get you out of here. Before Dom wakes up, or Cole drags Baird in here drunk on his ass and he gets the wrong idea."

"Why would they care?" Chelsea asked, blinking heavily. She'd never slept in a real bed before, and it felt a little too soft. Her hips ached, and she felt like if she laid there long enough her spine would permanently mold out of shape. But it was nice to stretch out and take up all the room she wanted. So nice, she was half tempted to get up and go to the bathroom, and then sleep the rest of the day.

Marcus pinned her with an 'are you kidding me' look. "Dom should be obvious. Baird-is touchy. He noticed you first. Even if it never goes anywhere, he still noticed you first."

"So, what? It's like he peed on me?" she asked. It actually did make a little sense to her. If one of her brothers had ogled a girl on base, and then one of the other two moved in on her, it was like a violation of trust.

"Something like that," he said, heaving up onto the balls of his feet.

The two of them met Cole coming home. They were just exiting Marcus's room, Chelsea shuffling along shrouded in her blankets with her pillow under one arm and Marcus waiting patiently for her to go ahead of him when the former Thrashball player slipped in the front door of the apartment. The three of them all looked at each other, and Cole started chuckling.

"Um, I'm guessing none of us wants Santiago to walk out too bad right now, huh?" Cole said. "Us kids got our hands in the cookie jar."

Chelsea pointed at the large Gear standing behind her. "He made me do multiplication while concussed," she tattled.

Cole nodded, his smile a little too fuzzy to be completely sober. "Oh. So that's how you like it. Huh, Fenix?"

"Actually, he slept on the floor," Chelsea added, shuffling over to the couch and sitting down. "I think he was too lazy to get up and walk out here to make me do mental math."

"Aww. Where's the fun in that?" Cole asked, and he actually sounded halfway disappointed. He was really serious about seeing Marcus get laid, apparently.

"Looks like you had enough fun for both of us last night, Gus," Marcus pointed out, leaning his shoulder against the door jamb to his bedroom, arms crossed over his bare chest.

Again with the fuzzy smile. "Yeah," Cole said. "When it comes to having a good time, the Train's still got it."

"Uh huh. So, where's Baird?"

Cole shrugged. "We went our separate ways about an hour before closing. Don't worry. I left him in good company," Cole said. "Cute little red head. Only had eyes for him. If he didn't screw it up, then he had a good time last night, too."

That revelation hit Chelsea like a sledgehammer on a gong. The initial impact made her shutter, and the reverberations after the fact shook her to the core.

Brain scrambling to make sense of why this had struck so close to home, her psych training kicked in and tried to bring order to the chaos. Mentally, Chelsea noted that Gus and Damon were two normal, adult males who liked to go out and have a good time. That was healthy and well within normal behavior patterns for war vets with the sort of history they shared. They weren't like Dom. They weren't ever married, and had no baggage from before or during the war to weigh them down. They also weren't like Marcus, who just sort of struck her as an enigma.

From a psych perspective, it all made perfect sense, but for some reason she still felt oddly stunned by the realization that the two of them were satisfied with going out every weekend and finding any girl who would take them home. It wasn't exactly a smart way to live these days.

It wasn't exactly what she'd expected from them, either. Chelsea felt an acute pang of disappointment that quickly turned to dispair. She hadn't thought about it much, but she'd gotten a little thrill of exhilaration from Damon's interest in her, regardless of whether his glances had meant something or were just for kicks. It'd been nice, to be noticed by a halfway decent guy, as opposed to some psychopath. It made her feel special.

How special could she be if any passing bar fly caught his eye just as easily?

"Gus, the man hasn't slept more than a few hours in days," Marcus stated, every inch a sergeant looking out for one of his men-torn between a fierce protective instinct and the desire to smoke the hell out of the guy for doing something stupid. "And you left him in the care of a hooker."

"Please. What you talkin' about? She wasn't a hooker."

Marcus glared at him. He was a 'no man left behind' type, and apparently that extended to nights out at the bars.

"Okay, I don't know that for sure. But she seemed to really dig him, you know? He's been all tense lately."

"He needed to go home and sleep."

"He probably did. You know Baird. When he's itching for something, he goes and does it. Doesn't care about anything else. He's not exactly an easy lay. I mean, he's easy compared to you guys, but you and Santiago aren't human. I'm just sayin'. The man's too picky sometimes."

Lost in thought, Chelsea got to her feet, leaving the warmth of her blankets behind. She slowly made her way to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. The guys didn't seem to notice her departure.

For a long moment she braced both hands against the sink, unable to lift her eyes and look at herself in the mirror. Shaking, she swallowed hard, counting the seconds that ticked by.

It hurt. Like a knife she didn't notice when it slipped in until she moved, and it started to slice up her vital organs. She'd gotten beat to hell on the outside, and now she felt it on the inside, too.

How could she ever trust anyone? Seven times she'd been forced to fight for her life because she wouldn't lay down and let just any man have his way with her body. That was the kind of man she attracted. Not someone stable. Not someone who wanted to care for her and be there for her. The world had gone to hell. Men could get away with forcing themselves on women, and a lot of girls fought back by throwing themselves at guys for money, or attention, or worse. Why not? At least as a prostitute a girl could get paid for doing the deed with a stranger. Find a good pimp and maybe the Johns would be too afraid to get rough.

For many women, some of them former farm breeders, that life was doable. For some men, even decent men, the readily available supply of rented affection was enough. Chelsea couldn't live that lie. She couldn't pretend to be that sort of person. Seven men had come at her, intending her harm, and the world wasn't exactly running out of scumbags. Would she die next time? Would she lose? Would she get hurt even worse than this?

Why couldn't she attract anything but trouble?

"What did I do to deserve this?" she whispered, at last looking into the eyes of the battered woman in the mirror.

For all the swelling and the millions of broken blood vessels beneath the surface of her skin, she barely recognized herself. Any day-to-day interaction might lead her right back to this moment, or to a worse one. She might not even see it coming, and suddenly Chelsea felt too weak to face that prospect. Her eyes stayed dry, but her throat closed and her chest heaved with silent sobs.

Her small hands squeezed tight on the sides of the sink and she slowly sank to her knees. It was as if hopelessness had chained up everything inside her chest and then cast anchor, forcing her to the floor, slowly pulling her down by inches.

Ashamed, she painstakingly kept her gasping breaths silent. How could she possibly explain this weakness away if the guys heard her?

"Suck it up," she whispered harshly, biting down on one knuckle-hoping physical pain would distract from the tear ripping ever larger inside her.

As usual, it didn't. It hurt, and hurt, and hurt without remorse.

* * *

It was Cole who finally found her. Chelsea stayed in the shower until the water was too cold to bear, and then she got out and wrapped up in a towel, sitting on the bathroom floor with her knees pulled up to her chest-staring off at nothing.

She thought about leaving the bathroom. Eventually one of the guys would need it, but it sounded like Dom wasn't up yet, and Marcus had finished his conversation with Cole, gotten dressed, and then left the apartment, letting the door bang shut behind him. She really couldn't stomach leaving her humid sanctuary. It was warm, and safe.

Cole probably knocked more than once before entering, but she didn't notice. Her eyes went a little wild when she realized someone had crouched down next to her.

"Hey, Shrink-Lady. You in there?" Gus asked her.

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry," she started, trying to get up, realizing she must've been there for a while.

Cole waved off her apology. "Don't worry about it," he said, taking a seat next to her on the floor. Sensing she needed an outlet, he let his huge shoulder softly bump hers. He was there, mostly sober, and his ears were open.

Cooler air had followed Cole into the bathroom, and when the breeze hit her damp skin it made her shiver. Chelsea pulled the towel tighter around herself, tucking her chin; her teeth started to chatter. "Cole. Do you ever get scared?" she asked.

The large man seated beside her pursed his lips, thinking. "Sometimes, yeah. Lots of things to be afraid of these days." He said it in a way that conveyed he didn't blame anyone for being afraid.

That was something at least. If a guy like Cole could admit fear, she could as well, right?

"I'm terrified," she whispered. There. She'd said it. It was simple, and true, and almost intolerable to live with. "I can't imagine an end to it. There's nothing I could possibly do to make things any better, probably for the rest of my life-as long or short as that might be."

"You think all this'll happen to you again?" Cole asked, indicating her various bumps and bruises.

Chelsea remained very still, eyes glazed. "I'm afraid it'll be worse next time," she admitted.

Cole's dark brown eyes rested on her for a long moment, and then he reached out with one large hand and brushed her wet hair back over her shoulder. "Tell you what, Shrink-Lady. We're gonna do our best to make sure it never happens again. Anything you need, you just let us know, baby. We'll get you a comm. We'll send you to work with that pistol you like so much. Anybody hassles you about it, we'll take care of it."

Chelsea bit her lip, nodding. Dom had mentioned some of those things the previous evening as well. "Cole?" she asked, her voice rough from being on the verge of tears. "Is anyone ever going to want me? Like, for real?"

Cole's deep chuckle could only be described as soothing. He really did have a nice voice. Chelsea felt she could fall asleep listening to it. "Listen to yourself, girl. Are you serious?"

She wished she wasn't. She half wished she could take back the question, and she really wanted to find the 'off' button for the hurt-puppy look she knew was probably on her face. Her cheeks started to turn red from embarrassment.

She never wanted any of them to see her this way.

Gus sighed, gently setting one meaty arm across her shoulders and pulling her toward him. "You _are_ serious. Well, there's no doubt about it in my mind, Shrink-Lady. Whoever it is better be tough, though. You throw a mean hook. Take a hell of a beating, and keep on comin'." He gave her shoulders a brief, encouraging squeeze.

On the surface his reassurances made her feel better, but her deeper doubts remained. Chelsea threw on a forced smile for him. The look almost faltered, but she managed to keep it on. "Hey, Cole? Where do you think I could get my hair cut?" she asked.

"What'ch you wanna cut it for?" he asked.

She shrugged. "So no guy can get a good grip on it ever again." Chelsea swallowed hard. She'd had long hair since she was a little girl, it would be hard to let go, even if the change was necessary. "I've been thinking about it. I think I want to shave it off. Like yours."

Cole smirked. "Well, you've come to the right place, baby. The Cole Train used to be the barracks barber. Got pretty decent at it-after a decade or so of practice. I'll cut your hair. Just do me a favor. Let me take a shot at cutting it short before you take a razor to it."

"Okay." Chelsea nodded, and her smile became fractionally brighter.

* * *

"Rise and shine," an MP called, just as the cell door slid open with a bang. "Last call for drunken assholes to get the hell out."

Baird groaned. His entire body was sore, especially his back after spending hours leaning against a hard cement wall. His throat was hang-over dry, and burning like he'd swallowed acid. His head ached, his sinuses were stuffed up and he needed to take a piss in the worst way. Sitting up, he slowly got to his feet, rubbing at the tight muscles at the back of his neck.

The MP, a tall, thin dark-skinned guy in his late twenties, stared down at Terrance's prone form, giving him a little shove with a boot. "Hey, buddy. You better not be bleeding on my floor."

"Am I free to go?" Damon asked. He could barely speak.

The MP flipped Terrance onto his back, still using his boot to make contact. "You guys must've had a hell of a party in here." He glanced up at Baird. "Yeah, man. Get your shit from the counter and get out of here."

Damon stepped over Terrance, and paused next to the MP, looking down at the pathetic excuse for a human being on the cell floor. "Got beat up by a girl," Baird informed the MP, motioning toward Terrance with his thumb.

The MP nodded appreciatively. "Hell of a girl."

"She's scrappy," Damon agreed. "Never would've guessed it looking at her. Shows what I know about the female physique, huh?"

"There's more of 'em around these days. You'll have to study up, man. So, what? She yours?" the MP asked.

Baird shrugged one shoulder, flippant. "If she was mine, I wouldn't spend Friday night in the tank," he said matter-of-factly. "I'd be at home, getting some."

The MP laughed. "Man, you must not know much about females in general. Maybe you would be, and maybe you wouldn't. Even if you did, it'd only last until the PCD got involved. My wife's a sweet little thing too-when she's not pregnant. She's working on government mandated kid number three right now, and you better believe there's no action coming or going in my house."

Subdued, Baird grunted an acknowledgment, chewing that insight over while he started down the aisle, past the solitary cells, slowly making for the security door that would lead out to the discharge area. He couldn't imagine Chelsea with a rounded figure. If he got her that way, would he stick by her?

Better question-how long would he live if he didn't?

"Take 'er easy," the MP called after him.

Damon had to clear his throat to respond, and even then the words came out hoarse. "Yeah, man. You too," he said over his shoulder, preoccupied.

Government mandated kids? Screw it. He'd take a page from Cole's book and be a bachelor for life.

Damon cleared the security door and his eyes caught on a hulking form leaning one elbow on the counter.

Fenix, waiting for him with a key ring swinging around his finger. Damon's key ring.

Baird sighed. He really didn't need this shit today. Striding forward, he met the former sergeant at the counter, leaning his own forearms against the cool Formica. "I must've really done something wrong to deserve to wake up to your face," he muttered, barely managing the words.

"Yeah," Marcus said, those piercing blue eyes looking him up and down. "You must've."

Damon shifted uncomfortably under the gaze. "Quit eying me, man," he said, ignoring the scalding burn each word inspired. The words were meant to be scathing, but they sounded anything but.

Regardless, Marcus completely ignored him. "Get what you came for?" he asked.

Damon froze, a wave of prickling ice running up his back. Marcus knew. Baird had no idea how the hell he knew, or how Marcus even know to find him here, but he did. Why the fuck couldn't Fenix take off that thinking cap for one night? One, stinking night. Damon thought he'd played it cool with the girl. He was pretty sure she had no fucking clue what was going on. No matter how hard he tried, pulling off subtle around Marcus was like stuffing a steak into his back pocket and trying to sneak it past a starving pit bull-and twice as stupid.

"Hell yeah, I did," Damon said, with far more bravado than he felt. Of all of them, Marcus was the least likely to approve of giving Terrance an additional beating. Cole wouldn't judge him for it, and hell-Dom would've probably held the guy while Damon beat the piss out of him. Santiago had it about right-Marcus believed in the justice system. He might be willing to pick up where the system failed, but Terrance was the COG's problem now.

Baird decided he didn't care. That asshole beat the shit out of a defenseless girl-a girl who wasn't much more than a kid. Damon didn't set out to run into him. It happened, and he didn't let the opportunity to lay down another ass-kicking pass him by. If he was a total bastard the son-of-a-bitch would be dead.

Fenix didn't look fooled. He stared another half beat, and then motioned toward the door with a jerk of his head. "Come on. Let's go."

After collecting his belongings-watch, wallet, comm-Baird slowly followed after him. In the parking lot, Damon could see his truck, looming large over the smaller vehicles scattered across the lot. They crossed the black asphalt side-by-side, Baird squinting at the ground-half to avert his photo-sensitive eyes from the bright sunlight, half too worn down to take in his surroundings, and a little confused on top of it all.

He hated this feeling. This in-between limbo where everything felt up in the air. He liked order, and control. "You going to tell them?" Baird croaked, grumpy and a little accusatory.

"Tell them what?" Marcus said, just as cool as could be.

When Baird looked up, the larger man tossed him the keys. Damon caught them with his left hand, stunned. It was weird, to think of Fenix having his back. He knew the man could keep a secret, but he'd never expected the two of them to be in on something like this. Keeping a secret from Cole and Santiago.

It was really hard to believe that Marcus would actually neglect to share something like this with Dom on his behalf.

They mounted up in the truck, Baird in the driver's seat, Marcus riding shot-gun. Damon inserted the key in the ignition, and then paused for a long moment, staring off into the distance-feeling like he'd forgotten something.

"They'd get it," Marcus said, his voice low and measured. "If you told them."

_Oh, really? Which part, Marcus? Which fucking part?_

Baird let his forehead thump down on the steering wheel. "That's-that's just a little too much sanity for me to handle right now," he mumbled to the steering column. "Especially from you." His entire body felt far too warm, and with the sun beating down on the windows he wasn't getting any cooler. Damon's fingers found the key and flipped it, firing up the engine. Leaning back in his seat, he checked out the back window over his shoulder. "They'd get it? Where did that bullshit come from, Fenix? From you of all fucking people."

Marcus shrugged one shoulder. "Just saying," he said wearily, staring out the window-letting the conversation go.

Baird backed out of the parking spot, and rolled down the windows after he guided the truck out onto the street. The cold breeze helped with his overheating problem, but the extreme physical exhaustion remained. He probably had a fever. And yeah, he got what Fenix was trying to tell him. 'Go for it. Don't make the same mistakes I did. Don't do anything you'll regret.'

Fuck it. He was too damn tired to care about anything, and maybe if he just forgot about the whole thing he'd save her a few regrets in the process.


	20. Chapter 20

_AN: I owe this story some love. Chapters may come a little slowly for a while. It's summer, and I've been tapped to sub for a couple people's kickboxing classes while they're on vacation this month. Hopefully things will pick up soon. Thanks for sticking with me:-)_

* * *

"Cole! Where the hell are my keys?" Dom shouted from his room. It sounded like he was ripping the place apart.

Cole was sitting next to Chelsea on the couch, eating ration oatmeal for breakfast. He shook his head slowly. It was Monday morning, and Dom had been tearing around the apartment for ten minutes, trying to find his keys. The four of them had worked at cleaning the apartment over the course of the weekend and things had gotten scattered and misplaced during the effort. Then the building's only dryer broke, and so they'd been forced to hang clean clothes from every available surface in the living room to air dry. Baskets full of dirty clothes and towels sat on the floor, waiting for someone to gather up the fortitude to carry them down to the basement to the building's only washing machine.

Cole mumbled so only Chelsea could hear. "You hearing this, Shrink Lady? As if I touched his damn keys."

"Is he like this a lot?" Chelsea asked.

Cole shrugged one massive shoulder. "He works himself up sometimes. He cool most of the time, but he's got that hot blood in 'em."

Chelsea nodded sagely. Bouts of irrational irritability were classic signs of PTSD, but without having known Dom before the war she had no idea if this sort of behavior was naturally typical of him. Pondering on that, Chelsea soon found herself distracted by the gray goop in the bowl resting on Cole's knee. She'd grown up on MREs. When she drove trucks as a kid she lived on them. But through those years, and her time as a medic, she'd never been desperate enough to try the oatmeal. In that one respect, she'd always been lucky.

"Is that actually tolerable?" she asked.

"Baby, after twenty years in the COG, I'm not sure I have any taste buds left," Cole told her gravely, taking another bite.

"Dammit, Cole! Where'd you put them?"

"Dom, pack it in. We needed to be gone five minutes ago!" Marcus shouted from the open doorway, then he turned away from them, depressing the button his comm. and mumbling into it too low to hear.

Brushing her new bangs out of her eyes, Chelsea got up, digging through the couch cushions, intent on assisting Dom in his search so the guys wouldn't be late for work. She placed a hand on Cole's shoulder, prompting him to lean forward so she could feel in the crease behind him, stretching to feel along the cushion on the other side of him.

"Oh, is this what it takes to get Shrink-Lady to hang all over the Train?" Cole teased.

Chelsea blushed. "Shut up," she said, smiling, the tips of her fingers brushing something that jingled. Sure enough, she pulled out a ring of keys from the depths of the couch.

"Hey, Dom. I found them," she called, swiping at her bangs again. She liked her new haircut, but it was hard getting used to wearing it short. Her bangs didn't quite hang in her eyes, but it felt uncomfortably close.

Dom stuck his head out of his room, letting out an exasperated sigh when he saw the keys she held up. "Where were they?" he asked.

"In the couch, where they fell out of your pocket," Cole informed him.

Making his way over to them, Dom shook his head, reclaiming his key ring. "Sorry, man," he said to Cole, looking deeply ashamed. Apparently he cooled down as fast as he heated up. Contrition replaced his annoyance.

Cole glanced at Chelsea. "Huh. He's sorry," Cole told her, sounding unconvinced.

"No, really. I'm sorry, man. Tell you what. I'll do the dishes all week," Dom promised, hauling out the biggest olive branch in his arsenal.

Cole grinned. "Now you're talkin', baby. I outta have you bitch me out more often."

Dom flipped the keys around his index finger, heading for the door where Marcus waited. "Yeah. Next time they're lost I'll know _exactly _who to blame."

"Heh, we'll see," Cole said, still exuberant with his victory. He crammed down a few more spoonfuls of oatmeal and then grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch.

Chelsea got up to walk with them. The three of them joined Marcus at the door.

"Are you guys sure I can't go with you?" Chelsea asked. Whether or not she'd be allowed to go to work had been up for contention all weekend, and after an examination that morning Dom and Marcus had decided she needed one more day to recuperate. "How are you going to explain where I am?"

"Don't worry about it, Shrink Lady. The Cole Train knows all the secretaries. They'll switch around schedules for you, tell people you're home recovering." Cole nodded, quite proud of his connections.

"Most people probably heard what happened to you," Dom said, shrugging as if that explained everything.

Chelsea took a deep breath, sighing. It was going to suck, spending the day by herself with nothing to do. Reading gave her a headache, and she didn't look forward to folding all the clothing scattered around the room. And she hadn't been alone since the attack. She would acutely miss the sense of security she felt when surrounded by her burly roommates.

She glanced up at them from beneath her bangs, ready to pull out her most pathetic expression in an attempt to change their minds, but instead started when she realized Baird had appeared at Marcus's side out in the hall, a ruck slung over his shoulder.

For two days there'd been no sign of him, and now suddenly he was standing in front of her. First she felt a tiny thrill at the sight of him, quickly followed by a heaviness that settled in her chest.

Then she noticed how terrible he looked. Pale and gaunt, he hadn't shaved in days and his eyes had dark circles beneath them.

Noting where her attention suddenly went, Dom and Cole turned to look at him, and he didn't react to the scrutiny. He just stared at the floor, eyes glazed. It seemed an oddly passive reaction for him.

"You look like hell," Dom said, voicing what they were all thinking.

"Thanks, I noticed," Damon shot back, the words scratchy and barely audible.

"Here," Dom said, stepping closer and placing the heel of his palm against Baird's forehead. Damon made a token attempt to shrug off the gesture, but Dom slapped his hand away and Damon didn't have the strength to keep up the fight. "Man, you feel like you're on fire." Dom left his hand in place for an extended moment.

"What're you doing?" Damon asked tiredly, eyes crossing when he tried to look up at his own forehead.

Dom eyed him warily, finally letting his hand drop. "You're not you," he concluded. "Hey, Chels. Take a look at him and see what you think."

Baird shook his head, a muscle in his jaw tightening. He looked like he wanted to protest, but either decided against it or didn't have the voice for it. He glanced up at Chelsea when she approached him, and then he did a double take, apparently noting her new hair style for the first time.

"You like it?" Cole asked, referring to Chelsea's new hair cut. Cole was pretty proud of the job he'd done.

Damon shrugged, the shock wearing off fast. "Looks a hell of a lot better than the hack job Brand had."

The question of who 'Brand' might've been briefly flitted through Chelsea's mind, but soon she was intent on examining her patient. Baird's eyes fell shut when she laid a cool palm across his forehead, and maybe it was her imagination, but he almost seemed to lean into the touch-just a little. "Dom's right. You're burning up," she said softly.

She gauged his fever at 'high,' and when she used both hands to feel the lymph nodes at his throat she felt a subtle tremble run through him, probably inspired by chills. He was lethargic and weak, and his glands were definitely swollen.

"Open your mouth," she instructed.

He did, letting her check the back of his throat without protest. Even without a light, she could see the back of his throat was red and his tonsils had white spots on them.

"High fever, spots on your tonsils—you need antibiotics," she informed him. "You probably have strep."

"Well, that's two we're gonna call in sick today," Cole said.

"No, I'm going. I'm good," Baird insisted.

Cole made a long, sarcastic _'ffft_' sound. "Go look in a mirror, baby. Then say you're fine."

"You've been burning it at both ends too long and it's finally bitten you in the ass. You're off today," Marcus decided.

"Oh yeah, smart guy? Who died and made you my shift supervisor?" Damon croaked.

Ignoring the brief flare of hostility, Dom clapped Baird on the shoulder. "Man, get some rest. Your brain won't be worth much if it hard boils in your skull."

Seeming to ponder it for a moment, Baird finally surrendered his keys into Marcus's care and then made a b-line for the couch. "Don't scratch it," he said over his shoulder. "Seriously. I'll kill all of you."

Marcus briefly turned his attention on Chelsea. "Don't over-do it. Try not to let him over-do it. We'll get him some antibiotics," he said in lieu of a farewell before turning to walk down the hall.

Dom winked at her. "If he gets pissy, remind him I'll be back to smack him around later."

"He ain't so bad when he's sick. Takes a little of the fire out of him," Cole commented, following Dom out and pulling the door closed behind him.

Suddenly they were gone, and she was alone—with Baird.

_Oh, come on. Shake it off,_ she scolded herself.

Damon had kicked off his boots and taken a seat on the couch, slouching down, his eyes drooping, arms loose at his sides. She cautiously rounded the end of the couch, taking a seat next to him. He glanced over at her and their eyes met for a long second.

In that moment she could definitely feel something heavy hanging in the air between them, but couldn't pin down what exactly it might be.

"So, how long have you been sick?" she asked.

"Saturday," he whispered, almost morose.

"And when were you going to go see a doctor?" she asked, adamant. Yeah, she definitely gave a damn about him. She irrevocably gave a damn about all of them.

God help her.

"Saw Fenix and Santiago," he said. "Pretty sure they've both secured doctorates in _Running Baird's Life For Him_."

"Yeah, I noticed that. Dom went into 'dad' mode on you."

Damon considered her with heavy eyes. "'_Mom_' mode," he corrected.

Chelsea pursed her lips to keep from smirking. Yes, he definitely enjoyed being absurd. "Whatever," she said. "I guess that's what you get for kissing strange red heads, huh?"

Baird ran a hand over his face, grinding his palm into one eye, a sort of grimace on his lips. "Should've known Cole couldn't keep his mouth shut. To be fair, she kissed me. But yeah. If this is what I get for a kiss, then I'm damn glad I didn't sleep with her. I probably would've dropped dead on the spot."

"You didn't?" she asked dumbly. The words ran out of her mouth without asking permission.

"No. I didn't," he repeated, pulling down his bangs and measuring them against his forehead. "She went after it hard, but I'm pretty sure it would've been more pleasant to slam my nuts in a door. Shit, I need a haircut."

Allowing herself two seconds to savor the relief she felt, the fact that her heart suddenly felt so light, she took a moment to respond. Finally, she said, "Cole's really good. I didn't think I could pull off short hair, but he made it work." It was lame, a filler response that didn't mean anything. Suddenly she had no idea what to say to him.

Baird remained silent, staring up at the ceiling, still absently pulling on his bangs. Eventually he glanced at her, reaching over to tug on the hair at the base of her skull. It was long enough to weave his fingers into, but too short to get a grip that would control her head. "That how the fucker got a hold on you?" he asked.

Chelsea nodded. Suddenly her throat felt dry, and her mind went blank. A chill of fear ran down her spine at the memory, and yet every nerve tuned in to his touch.

Clearing his throat, Damon's hand fell away from her. "So, what's up with all the clothes?" he asked, looking around, lingering on the sight of Cole's silk boxers hanging on the door knob to his bedroom. "So, if Gus stretched his underwear between two sticks, how many Stranded children do you think it would house? My money's on two, but you know Stranded. They could shove a set of matched luggage up a horse's ass and still find room to pack more in."

"You talk a lot for a guy with a sore throat," she noted sardonically.

"It hurts like hell, but I really can't help myself. So, seriously? Did the dryer break down again?"

She nodded. "It did."

Baird sighed, heaving onto his feet. "It's not like I haven't taken it apart before. Since I don't have anything better to do today..."

"Whoa, you're going to fix it? Now?"

"Like I said. Nothing better to do."

"You're supposed to rest," she reminded, but she could already see it was useless. He'd decided on a course of action, and she had a feeling any protest she made would be entirely in vain.

Baird shoved his feet back into his boots, stomping until they went all the way on. "Fixing a dryer is restful. Sitting around doing nothing is hell."

Chelsea mock scoffed. "Oh, I'll bet you did fantastic in the Army," she commented. "Because, you know, in the COG it's never 'hurry up and wait.' Every operation is conducted with the utmost efficiency and professionalism."

"If that was your experience, then they _really_ ran the medical units differently." Damon extended a hand to her. She took it, gripping tight while he gently pulled her upright. For a moment they stood almost face-to-face, just inches apart. At eye-level with his rough jaw line, Chelsea took a deep breath, her skin prickling at the sudden closeness. For an instant, she imagined stepping just a little closer and slipping her arms around that solid waist. "Come on," he said, breaking the moment far too soon. "I'll show you where these idiots keep the tool box."

Watching him walk away, she completely forgot how to make her legs work. What the hell was this? When did she let things get this bad?

_He doesn't feel it,_ she realized, panic rising fast to choke her. She had a hero complex. Like a freaking twelve year old girl. She wasn't just falling for him, she was nose diving, and if she didn't pull out of it soon she'd crash.

Internally clamping down on those feelings of exhilaration and affection, she weeded them out, forcing them back until she felt nothing. The heavy gloom returned with a vengeance, but at least it helped dampen the crazy crush she felt.

Slowly, she placed one foot in front of the other, not allowing even a tiny thrill to rise up inside when he turned to look over his shoulder at her, making sure she was coming with him.

* * *

"Hey, bitch," Baird said to the old, yellowed dryer. The machine hadn't been new for a long, long time. Probably since before the war. When it did work, it sounded like a train running off the tracks. The bottom panels had nearly rusted through, and until Baird mentioned that he'd worked on it before, Chelsea had pondered long and hard on how the thing still ran. "I hear you've been misbehaving."

Wielding a large flat headed screwdriver in his left hand, Baird slipped the head beneath the edge of the top panel, using the driver as a lever. Based on the paint chipped away and the groove worn beneath that entry point, Chelsea got the feeling Damon had worked on this machine several times in the past.

Attempting to lever the panel off, Damon cursed under his breath, allowing himself a small grunt of effort. "Yeah, yeah, it's been a while. What, you thought I'd be gentle? You know me better than that." Finally coercing the top up, he flipped it back, allowing Chelsea to hold it out of his way while he worked on the screws that would release the front panel.

Just that small amount of effort left him sweating and moving slowly. She'd worked with him before, and then he'd been completely focused on the task at hand; manipulating tools with uncanny ease.

Ten minutes later, they'd removed the top and front panels, another interior panel, the belt around the drum that made it spin, and the drum itself—essentially leaving behind a hollowed-out box with three thin metal walls and a floor, containing the vent system, heating element, and the motor.

Crouching down, Damon examined the remains with a multi-meter in hand. Reaching out, he spun one of the rollers with a finger. It turned once, and then caught and halted.

"Those should spin freely. They probably needed to be replaced about a decade ago, but good luck finding a new pair," he said, digging in his tool kit for a can of WD-40. Spraying down the bearings, he worked the roller back and forth until it spun a little easier. "But, that's an aesthetic problem. It makes the thing loud, but it still technically works."

Saying nothing, Chelsea patiently stood behind him with a flashlight pointed at whatever he happened to be touching at the moment. The building's basement was a dark, dank area—too warm and humid to be comfortable because the washing machine ran all the time. Two bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling, but one had burned out and the other only cast a dim circle of light, barely touching the shadowed corners of the room.

Based on the faded scent of rancid urine not quite covered by the overarching smell of detergent, Chelsea suspected panhandlers occasionally camped here at night during the cold season.

Baird continued on with his inspection. While working, it really seemed like his guard came down. He explained things factually, without the usual bite of sarcasm.

"Motor looks good," he commented. The small electric motor was set into the base of the dryer, and Baird touched the metal leads off the multi-meter to various wires entering and leaving the unit. The multi-meter beeped, indicating an unbroken circuit. "It's probably a fuse at the heat source. When the machine gets too hot, a fuse blows to prevent a fire. Then the damn thing won't heat up when you run it, and although your clothes may enjoy going for a ride, you're basically just wasting your time." After a pause, he glanced back at her.

"What?" she asked innocently. Chelsea waited expectantly for him to continue with his explanation. She knew just enough about small motors and electronics to follow along, and learning to fix this thing would be great. The next time it broke down she could probably convince Dom to work on it with her.

Damon blinked at her. "I'm explaining simple mechanics to you and you're not wandering off, or cursing me out for being a know-it-all, or informing me I'm only telling you things you already know, or—my personal favorite—telling me to just shut up and fix it. I'd conclude it's a girl thing, but I've met enough female Raven pilots to know better. They get extra pissy. Always acted like I didn't know what the hell I was doing."

Unsure of what to say, Chelsea just shrugged. "My mom never talked when she worked. I probably would've learned a lot more if she had. I like the way you explain things. She kind of just expected me to read her mind. Got pissed off sometimes when I couldn't."

Baird seemed to ponder that for a moment, and then nodded to himself. "Okay, we'll go with that. Forget about the flashlight. Get down here and hold one of these leads. It's not easy to juggle all this crap with two hands."

Chelsea obeyed, crouching down next to him. Over the course of the next twenty minutes, she learned a lot about how a dryer worked. She helped Baird find the blown fuse, and he showed her how to replace it. She half suspected he let her do a great deal of the work simply because he struggled with the effort of it. Regardless, it was nice. Friendly.

And she decided she was okay with that.

* * *

Besides being sick as a dog, Damon was actually having a halfway decent morning. He fixed a dryer, played cards with a hot blonde girl, took a nap.

Then, things took a strange turn. Around noon Marcus showed up with antibiotics. Problem was, he didn't come alone.

"It's good to see you up and around," Chelsea said, patting Wes Kendall on his good shoulder. His injured arm was contained in a sling made from a canvas bag with a strap that went around his neck.

The kid blushed, sickeningly adorable with his shy act. "It's all thanks to you. I heard you had a hell of a Friday. I'm really glad you're okay," he said, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Chelsea's shoulder, squeezing to show how much he 'really cared.'

"_I'm really glad you're okay," _Baird mimicked unkindly under his breath. He was seated across the room, completely out of the conversation and presumably absorbed in his laptop. "Well, if she'd waited on you to save her, she sure as fuck wouldn't be, pal."

His laptop momentarily froze, the CPU overwhelmed when he ran a heavy hardware simulation. In his spare time he'd been working on a bot, and the firmware wasn't where he wanted it to be.

Impatient and annoyed, Baird tapped the escape key harder than necessary. When he finally regained control of the simulation, he started to tap in rapid-fire lines of code. He'd always been hard on a keyboard, usually because he got so involved in a project he didn't notice how fast his fingers flew over the keys. This was different. Even Marcus noticed. The angry typing caught Fenix's attention, and he shot a subtle look in Baird's direction.

Damon paused just long enough to glare over the top of the screen, his eyes clearly conveying 'blow me, Marcus.' It was different from his 'blow me, Dom' glare. That one he'd had more opportunities to practice.

Was it his imagination, or did a bit of smug amusement flicker across Fenix's face?

"Man, you better not be playing with me," Damon grumbled to himself, once again too low for the rest of them to hear. Digging the pad of his thumb into his sore sinuses, Baird raised his eyes toward the ceiling, and whatever higher power might lay beyond. "Hell, he is playing with me. And why not? I keep _walking_ into it."

"So, Bender's got you back to work already."

"Yeah. I'm out of the field. On dispatch duty. Listen, I really appreciate everything you did for me," Wes told Chelsea. "I need to make it up to you. I already asked your cousin if it'd be all right if I took you out for dinner tomorrow night. He said he didn't have a problem with it, if you wanted to go. It won't be anything fancy, but I know a nice place near work. It's the least I can do."

He asked her cousin? Who the hell?

"You really asked Dom if you could take me out?" Chelsea asked, bordering between skeptical and impressed.

_What?_ Santiago was passing himself off as her cousin? Baird could find ten distinct points of wrongness with that entire concept, and had a hard time keeping them to himself.

"He really did," Marcus confirmed.

Baird mumbled something unintelligible about kneecapping a certain Sergeant, although he appeared completely focused on his simulation. What the hell was Fenix up to? He could be a manipulative bastard from time to time, but never this heavy-handed. Why did he bring the kid over with him?

"Sure," Chelsea said. "That sounds like fun." Did he detect a thin thread of hesitation in her voice?

_You don't care,_ he reminded himself.

He didn't care. Wasn't his girl. Let Dom babysit his own damn project.

Wes smiled big at Chelsea. "I like the new look," he said, brushing a few strands of hair off her forehead.

_That's it._ Snapping his laptop shut, Damon stuffed it back into his ruck, heaving to his feet.

"You ready to go?" Marcus asked when Baird brushed past, in a huff. No matter how much he wanted to play this cool, he didn't have it in him. He had a short bullshit fuse normally, and while sick it went virtually to zero.

"Waiting on _you_, honey," Baird sniped. It was his truck. They were on his fucking schedule. He was half tempted to grab his meds and just take off, but he wouldn't put Marcus through an ass chewing for being late. Even if it meant he had to sit in the cab with Kendall—the fucking prick.

A bit unsettled, Chelsea said hasty good-byes to Marcus and Wes. It was hesitant, but there was definitely some light in the smile she gave Wes when she closed the door.

The three of them walked down the hall, Baird several steps ahead.

"She's really beautiful," Wes commented, his shit-eating grin bleeding into the dreamy way he spoke. The kid was star-struck.

_Wonder what that feels like,_ Damon considered sardonically. By the pre-war standard, he was still a young guy. By post-war standards, he was a jaded, crusty old man. He could strafe the balls off a Boomer with his sarcastic streak. With proper care and daily sharpening, his tongue could kill a man. He'd never been in love, definitely hadn't ever suddenly fallen under a beautiful woman's spell.

"Yeah, she is," Marcus agreed.

His ears perking in shock, Damon swung his head around. _What the fuck did he say?_

Fenix turned impassive eyes on Kendall. "You should probably know—if you hurt her, Dom'll come for you. And you won't survive it." The statement was disturbingly factual. Like a freaking robot, Fenix didn't have a tell. He didn't give away which side he agreed with, he just laid it out there. Baird wasn't sure if Wes believed it, but he did. He'd played cards with Fenix enough times to know he rarely bluffed. Like the guy or hate him, he usually gave it to people straight. And Marcus knew Dom better than anyone.

Santiago never got a piece of the individual Grubs responsible for murdering his family and torturing his wife. The man didn't have much left. If anyone hurt his friends, that would probably satisfy that machismo honor he hauled around, and he'd take his pound of flesh where he could get it.

They all went very still after Marcus's admission.

"I'm sure that won't be necessary." Wes sounded timid. Knocked suddenly from a high place down to a low one.

Fenix shrugged. "Just thought you should know."

"That's bullshit," Damon said before he could really think about it. What did he care if the Wes believed Dom would dissect him with a big ass commando knife? Then again, he saw a flaw in Marcus's logic, and out of spite or habit, he was going to pack it with C-4 and blow it wide open. "That Stranded beat the fuck out of her. Santiago didn't go after him."

"He didn't have to," Marcus emphasized. "MPs picked him up because Bender Fields pressed charges. Besides, Dom didn't know that guy."

"It makes a difference?" Wes opined.

"It makes a big fucking difference," Marcus confirmed, slapping Baird on the shoulder when he passed him.

Damon rolled his eyes. _Oh, real subtle_, _Fenix_.

They made it down to the truck, and Wes jumped into the back seat. Before they got in, Damon glared at Marcus across the hood. "What're you doing?" he asked. "What the hell was that bullshit?"

Marcus shrugged one shoulder. "Wasn't my idea to bring him."

"Oh, really? What, he just hopped in the truck and you didn't notice?"

"Baird." Marcus silenced him with that one word. When used forcefully, that rough voice could cut through Brumak hide. "_No one_ knows. If you want to keep it that way, then quit wearing your dick on your sleeve and keep it in your pants, where it belongs."

"What? Is that an order?" Damon quipped.

"Would that help?" Marcus asked skeptically, tipping his head slightly to one side.

Baird mulled it over for a minute. "No," he admitted. "Probably not."

"Well, there you go. Now, if you're done being a drama queen, we could use a ride back to work." That said, Marcus walked around and hopped into the passenger seat.

"Hey. Screw you, man. I'm not a drama queen," Damon insisted, also getting into the truck.

Marcus settled into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and letting his eyes fall shut. A pose Baird had seen often on the Sergeant during long Raven and Centaur rides during the war. "Keep telling yourself that, Baird."

Damon grunted, and reached to turn over the engine.

* * *

Baird washed down a pill with a glass of water from the sink in his kitchen.

A beep from the living room drew his attention. "What're you doing?" he inquired of the bot puttering around, one of his shirts hanging from its pincher. This wouldn't be so unusual if the bot weren't continually bumping into a chair, unable to get its bearings and move away from the obstacle.

The apartment was new. A newly renovated building. New plaster. Hardwood floors. Most of his life, Damon had dreamed of having a place of his own that he could turn into one massive workbench. Now he had it, and he rarely saw it. Thus the bot that didn't work properly. He didn't trust the damn thing to do anything more complicated than gathering laundry and some light clerical work. If he had the time he could tune the thing up—replace a few faulty sensors, tweak the firmware—and then he'd have an incredibly powerful assistant. With a bot crunching numbers and doing the grunt work for him, the possibilities of what he could build were endless.

"Any calls?" Damon asked.

The bot beeped a negative.

Setting down his glass by the sink, Damon walked over to the chair with his ruck, taking a seat. "Yeah, settle down," he told the little bot, reaching out to turn it toward him. "Hold still."

The bot ceased running its thrusters, beeping an analysis in POST code.

"Yeah, I know one of your optical drives isn't working." Baird pulled a roll of tools from his ruck, using a screw driver to remove a panel on the bot's front that gave him access to the sensor array. He went down the line, finally finding a loose one. "Well, that was shockingly easy," he grumbled, replacing the panel and watching the bot motor around a little, its ability to navigate restored.

After doing a self-check, the bot beeped an 'all clear.'

"You're welcome," Damon said sarcastically, pulling out his laptop. Opening it up, he slouched down in the chair, flipping the screwdriver around his thumb and catching it over and over again. For a long time he sat there in silence, staring at that computer screen, warring with himself.

"Fuck it," he finally said. Slapping the screwdriver down on the work table beside the chair, Baird sat up a little straighter, giving his hands a better angle on the keyboard so he could wreak havoc on it.

Pulling up the COG mainframe web page, he tapped in a user name and password that didn't get him access. "There's the long shot. Now let's try the sure thing." He entered the super administrator user name and password he'd given himself years ago when he set up the COG's new satellite network, centered on Vectes, and pressed 'enter.'

"What the fuck do you mean access denied!"

He tried it again. Same result. Same 'user name unknown' stamp on his screen, the bright red letters all but mocking him.

"That motherfucker. Hey, retard. Come here."

The bot complied. Abandoning the pile of socks it had started throwing one by one into the trash can—as opposed to the washing machine—the bot made its way over to where he sat, using a series of beeps and zips as an inquiry.

"Call Trent Vallerine. Do it on video, I want to see that jerk's face."

The bot lowered the screen attached to the base of its chassis and initiated the call, on stand-by while it tried to connect. In the meantime, Baird fumed. He'd spent literally thousands of man hours-his own spare time-on recreating all kinds of essential systems for the COG after Jacinto sank. All he asked for in return was a couple back doors so he could go poking around if the mood struck him. But no. They couldn't give him that.

"Hello?" A kid answered the call. He had sandy blond hair and an old, long healed scar between the corner of his left eye and the corner of his mouth. As opposed to marring his face, the subtle fold of the skin actually brought some character to his features. The kid saw who was calling and his eyes went a little wide. "Holy shit. Is that you, Baird?"

"No, it's fucking Prescott. Who the hell do you think it is calling you?"

Trent shrugged. "I don't know, man. It's the middle of the night here," The younger man said. "Hey, you don't sound so good. Are you sick?"

Jaw set, Baird tried really hard to count to ten. Trent Vallerine wasn't just an obnoxious kid. He was former Navy, and actually decently intelligent. He'd watched over Damon's shoulder while he rebuilt essential systems and took over maintaining the network when other projects pulled Baird away from it. The kid was good-natured enough to take a tongue lashing, and probably expected nothing less from his former mentor.

"Vallerine, I just tried to log in with my super user privileges. Why the hell does it say I don't have a user name anymore? Since when are you smart enough to find my undocumented super user name anyway?"

Trent looked a little guilty. "Maybe it doesn't work because you're not a Gear anymore? You're out. I'm under orders to remove everyone's accounts when they get out, regardless of super user status.

Damon blinked at Trent. "Hey, Vallerine. Remember when you were a glorified valet for some Navy Lieutenant Commander serving as liaison to the Gears on Vectes? Remember the time you let your buddies drive the LC's humvee to town to pick up 'supplies' and they wrapped it around a tree on the way back from the bar? Who swapped that truck out for you? Who saved your ass?"

"You calling that in?" Trent asked, visibly sweating.

"Yeah. I think I'm going to call that favor in. Give me back my privileges and forget you did it."

"Roger that, Corporal," Trent said, typing furiously on the keyboard in front of him. "Your user name and privileges are restored. It may take a minute for the system to update, but then you should be able to get in. Man, are you going to do something that's going to get me fired?"

"No, I'm not," Baird reassured him roughly. "Even if I was, no one would know but you. It's not like anyone else on that rock knows how to be an administrator."

Trent looked a bit relieved at that. "Is there anything else?" he asked.

"Nope," Damon said, pulling up the screen and entering his info in the boxes. This time access was instantaneous. "I'd say thanks, but we both know I'm a jackass, so I won't."

"Take it easy, Baird," Trent signed off. The screen went blank.

The bot went back to dropping socks in the trashcan. Baird watched it absently for a while. He had a hell of a decision ahead of him.

"You make a terrible wife," Baird informed the bot. "What the hell do you do all the time while I'm gone? Just sit around? Try to tune in soaps still bouncing around the satellites from before the war?"

The bot beeped in response. Damon could just imagine the damn thing informing him they didn't spend time together anymore.

"Everyone's a critic," Baird grumbled, jaw propped up on a fist. He glanced at the search page in front of him. He'd logged into the military police section of the COG site. Behind the firewall, he had access to all case files created since Jacinto was destroyed.

All he had to do was tap a few keys. Maybe it wouldn't go anywhere. Maybe the world would drop out from under him and he'd spiral down the rabbit hole. Regardless of how it went, he had to assume he'd be in this alone.

"Fuck it. Misery loves company, and holy shit am I a miserable bastard today." Baird typed in his first query and punched 'enter.'


	21. Chapter 21

_AN: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Sorry if I didn't get back to everyone. Things are super crazy these days, but I need to do better.  
_

* * *

Cole leaned on his shovel, removing one dirt-black leather work glove and wiping the sweat from his eyes with an equally sweaty index finger. In the west the sun was going down, throwing a beautiful red-gold glow over the city. The days were slowly getting longer, which meant the work day was slowly getting longer. At least it was Friday. Another work week was coming to a close.

There were guys all over the place, working with shovels, jackhammers, skid-loaders and backhoes. Dom was taking a look at a truck with a bad belt, and Marcus was around somewhere, doing management duties well above his pay grade.

The week had flown by. Shrink-Lady had finally convinced Dom to quit mothering her so much and let her go back to work. Gus didn't know if the others noticed, but he got the feeling Chelsea really had a hard time staying anywhere alone. She'd been shaky since the attack, jumpy. On Monday she stayed at the apartment by herself for the afternoon and when the three of them arrived home, they caught her just coming out the bathroom. Maybe she'd just been using the restroom; but she'd had her pistol clipped at her hip and Cole wondered if she'd barricaded herself in. Sometimes smaller spaces felt safer, even if they weren't. Cole knew that first hand.

Still, he wondered if she had a hard time going back to work. It couldn't be easy, facing a one-on-one with a stranger after what happened to her. Dom gave her his comm, and she had her pistol concealed under her jacket.

"Hey there, Train. You calling it a day already?" Timmons asked, throwing some tar-coated roofing onto the back of the nearly-full dump truck parked below before leaning on his own shovel.

Cole couldn't help smiling. Timmons was an old guy. In his fifties, and still keeping up with the young guys. He mostly did construction for Bender's sister company, Jacoby Inc., but occasionally picked up an extra shift on the clean-up crews with Bender Fields.

"The Train just can't keep up with you, baby. Must be the bald head. Makes you strong."

"Damn right," Timmons agreed, whipping out a cigarette and lighting up. The smell of smoke plumed out over the rubble. "Makes me real popular with the ladies, too. I'd be getting laid all the time if I could actually stay up past ten."

"What's your old lady say about that?"

Timmons smiled a toothy grin. "Mostly, she elbows me and tells me to quit snoring. You outta see the new nurse we got at Jacoby. She's a pretty thing. A few weeks ago the two of us were all alone in her office and she told me to take my pants off."

"Oh yeah, baby?" Cole asked, raising one skeptical eyebrow. Timmons had a habit of being crude, but he was harmless. Just an old teamster who liked to shock people.

"You better believe it. Then she looked at me, all cute like, and said 'Now turn your head and cough.'"

Cole gaffed appropriately. This wasn't really his type of humor, but he'd laugh along with about anyone over about anything, so long as it wasn't mean-spirited. "That must've been a good time."

"Best time I've had in years. So how about that shrink you boys got? I heard she's smokin'. Fresher than an LT out of the academy and actually worked during the war instead of squeezing out kids. You know Dodge, our crane operator? He's got a pool going on which one of you Bender fagots will nail her first. I told 'ol Dodge the smart money is on the Cole Train."

Cole chuckled, playing right along with the gag. It occurred to him it might be best for Chelsea if no one knew she lived with them. Although if people thought she was with Cole, they'd probably give her a wide berth. He still pulled down a lot of respect, even with guys who didn't know him personally. "You put money on the Train?" he asked.

Timmons shrugged. "Just a few bucks. You're way ahead of everyone else in the pool, man. Collins from crew 5 has some support. Fenix and Santiago are on there."

"Are you serious? They got Santiago on there? Baby, I hope he's down as the long shot."

"Na. He's just about even money. Santiago's real popular with the secretaries over at Jacoby. Can't deny it; women like him."

"They do," Cole agreed. "So how about Kendall and Baird? Anybody putting money on them?"

"What're you, nuts? That Baird kid can't pull his head out of his ass long enough to notice a woman. If she paraded around in front of him topless, he'd be too busy jackin' off to some machine to notice. If he porks her before one of you other guys get a shot in, I'll eat my hat."

"Yeah. That'd really be somethin'," Cole said, noting the dusty cowboy hat covering Timmons' bald head. It would definitely be more than a mouthful, although it looked like some rats had taken a shot at nibbling around the edge. Judging by the sweat stains on it, the thing would be salty and chewy. Not even Dizzy would've touched it. "And what about Kendall? He on the list?"

Timmons shrugged. "Don't even know him. He new?"

"Just hired last week. He's a young guy. I heard he asked her out on a date."

"Really? Well, thanks for the tip. I'll have to go put his name in, see if I can up my chances. You're still my man, Cole, but you know what they say about eggs and baskets. You should know, the lucky man gets a quarter of the pool. You could spread that around, get some competition going."

"You can count on me, baby," Cole lied. He'd be damned if he'd tell anyone about the Jacoby pool, except maybe Fenix. Santiago was already spinning those protective instincts to the max. If he heard about this, he might do something crazy. Marcus was a cool hand. He liked to be in the know, and he could make the final call on whether or not they'd tell Chelsea about the gun sights locked on her virtue. Cole hesitated to tell her only because she was already so on edge. They were all doing their best to keep her safe. This wouldn't change that.

"You hear Jacoby and Bender are thinking about expanding out into mining?" Timmons rattled on. "There's old coal mines about ninety miles south of here. Most of the shafts have collapsed, but they're thinking about opening some of them up. Could mean they'd restore power to more of the city."

"You sayin' I might not be the only 'Cole' Train in town anymore?" Cole joked.

Timmons shook a finger at him. "Ah, you. You're a funny one, Cole," he said, making his way over toward the foreman, who was calling over all the Jacoby guys to collect their pay for the day. "Don't forget about that thing I told you about. Spread the word."

Cole waved him off. "There is something seriously wrong with some people," he said to himself, finally hefting his shovel and getting back to work.

* * *

"Here, honey. Watch the ball," Dom instructed his daughter. He was down on one knee, holding a wiffle ball out so the small girl could see it, and then gave it a little underhanded toss toward her.

Sylvia swung Bennie's miniature plastic bat with all her three-year-old might, and brought it around a second after the ball landed on the grass at her feet.

"She's out! That's strike three!" Bennie called from behind Dom. The four-year-old boy was supposed to be playing outfield, the glove Grandpa Santiago gave him for his birthday on his left hand. He liked his glove, but he liked batting best. Bennie had a hard time being patient with his younger sister's attempts to hit the ball and spent most of his time in the 'outfield' with both hands on his knees, or tossing the glove up and catching it.

Sylvie had just started to put on her best pout when Dom said, "Why don't we give her one more, Ben? Sometimes we give you one more."

The little boy rolled his eyes. "Okay," he said grudgingly.

Sylvie's oncoming frown turned into a smile, and she bent down to pick up the ball. "Catch," she said, using all her might to throw the wiffle ball to her father four feet away, and even then the throw didn't cover the entire distance.

Dom stretched to catch the ball. "Good throw, Sylvie! Now get ready to hit it."

Sylvia got in her best batting stance, ready to take a slice at the next pitch, but something else caught her attention before Dom could toss the ball. She dropped the bat, sprinting toward the side of the house. "Uncle Marcus!" she yelled.

Dom turned around in time to see Bennie ditch his glove in the field and race his sister to meet the young man rounding the side of the house. He couldn't suppress a secret smile when the kids mobbed Marcus, Bennie joyfully grabbing him at the knee and Sylvie reaching up, positively bouncing until Marcus picked her up, letting her rest on his hip.

"Lift me up, Uncle Marcus!" Bennie insisted, releasing his death-grip on Marcus's leg. He was referring to a game the two of them sometimes played.

Marcus extended his free hand to the boy, and Bennie grabbed on with both hands, hanging on tight and shouting gleefully when Marcus held onto the boy with just the strength of his hand and, flexing his bicep, lifted Bennie clear off the ground, putting no more effort into it than he would doing curls with a dumbbell.

Dom could lift his son in a similar manner, but Bennie only got a kick out of it when Marcus did it. It was their game. Bennie used to play similar, if simpler, games with Carlos when he first started walking. Now the boy didn't remember his real uncle. Dom was grateful Marcus had decided to suck it up and fill that void in his kid's lives. He knew the unwavering attention made Marcus uncomfortable. The young corporal never quite knew how to handle it, but he tried.

He actually did well with the kids, although he never believed it when Dom said so. Ever stoic, Marcus would let them treat his huge frame like a jungle gym for hours on end. He didn't hug and kiss and tease them the way Carlos would've, but Bennie and Sylvia seemed to know their uncle Marcus was a solid presence in their lives. Bennie constantly switched back and forth between admiring Marcus and admiring his father. Sylvia had fallen in love with Marcus when she was learning to walk. She would grab onto his fingers when she practiced toddling, forcing him to bend in half to help her along so she wouldn't fall down.

"Help me, Uncle Marcus?" Sylvia asked, laying her head gently on his broad shoulder and breaking out her best princess-in-distress face. That look worked like a charm on her father, and while Marcus didn't seem outwardly affected by it, Dom knew his friend had no defenses against it at all. The COG didn't exactly train soldiers to deal with adorable little girls with big brown eyes, although Dom occasionally wished they did. "I can't hit."

"What, are you throwing her fastballs, Dom?" Marcus asked, pulling Bennie up off the ground one more time and fluidly catching him so the center of the boy's weight came to rest on Marcus's forearm. He was now holding them both high above the ground.

"Yeah, Marcus. I'm throwing her fastballs. And then when she finally catches up to it, I throw her a curve just for kicks," Dom said with a hint of sarcasm.

Once in reach, Bennie immediately went for Marcus's bandanna, pulling it off his uncle and placing it on his own head, where it promptly fell down over his eyes.

The first time Bennie snatched that bandanna, Dom expected Marcus to blow his top. It surprised him, when his friend tolerated it. Sure, he still flinched a little when his personal space was invaded, but he never let on that he minded. Bennie and Sylvia were probably the only people in the world who could've gotten away with that. Still, it seemed to disturb Marcus a little when Bennie would run around wearing his do-rag, demanding everyone call him Corporal Fenix. Marcus couldn't fathom a child wanting to grow up to be him.

"You hit it, Uncle Marcus," Bennie suggested, still trying to fenagle the huge black bandanna into sitting properly on his head.

"You hit it," Sylvia parroted. The kids loved watching their father and uncle go to bat. Either of the two Gears could crush a ball clear across the neighborhood, and even after hundreds of repetitions Bennie and Sylvia were still awed by the feat.

Marcus set them both down on their feet, taking a knee and tying the bandanna properly on Bennie's head, covering the little boy's dark hair. Then he turned the boy around, giving him a gentle nudge toward the glove he'd abandoned. "There, kid. You're all set to play outfield."

Bennie trudged out while Marcus patiently helped Sylvia set up at the make-shift home plate-an old ball cap resting on the ground beneath a cypress tree. Marcus directed Sylvia on where to place her feet, helped her choke up on the bat, and with one of his hands on her hip and the other covering her tiny hands on the bat handle, he helped her take a cut at the next ball Dom tossed, tapping it back at him.

Dom let the ball roll past him. "Bennie, get it!" he called, breaking the boy from his brief daydream.

Bennie saw the ball rolling toward him and pounced on it, just as Sylvie ran past him, on her way to first base.

"She's safe!" Dom declared when his daughter finally reached the tree serving as first base. It was maybe fifteen feet from home plate. Sylvia was positively glowing. She rarely bested her older brother, and even at such a young age, the two were intensely competitive . Perhaps even more so than Dom and Carlos had been. Dom suspected that intensity came from Maria, but he'd never say so.

"Bennie, it's your turn," Dom called over his shoulder.

Bennie shook his head. "No, it's Uncle Marcus's turn," he decided.

Dom glanced at Marcus, one eyebrow raised. His friend shrugged in response, picking up the small plastic bat and getting to his feet.

"Got my eye on you, buddy," Marcus said, pointing at Dom with the bat. "No funny stuff."

Dom grinned. Amazing, how Marcus could clean up his language around the kids. He just turned off the grunt junior NCO and became 'Uncle Marcus' the same way he used to turn off the facade he put on for his parents.

"Man, you look ridiculous with that thing," Dom said, shaking his head.

Indeed, it was quite a sight, watching a giant like Marcus heft a tiny plastic bat. The thing was only a little longer than the distance between his elbow and knuckles. He couldn't fit one entire hand on the handle.

"Oh yeah? Pitch the ball. Then we'll see who looks ridiculous."

"Okay. Here it comes. You ready?"

"Waiting on you."

Dom tossed the ball underhanded, and Marcus perfectly tapped it toward Bennie. The ball didn't streak at the boy, but it rolled at a faster clip than anything Sylvia could manage. Bennie jumped on the ball, thrilled by the challenge, and ran over to tag Marcus out a few short steps from the batter's box. Meanwhile, Dom was encouraging Sylvia to run for second.

"Dinner!" Maria called from the house. "Dom, did Marcus find you?"

"Yeah, he did, babe. We're coming."

Sylvie skipped over to Marcus, reaching up until he swung her up into his arms. "We won!" she declared, squeezing Marcus around the neck, her cheek pressing against his.

"I got you out, didn't I, Uncle Marcus," Bennie chattered, taking nearly three steps to each of Marcus's slow, measured strides. Bennie still had the ball, and he tossed it up, catching it.

"You sure did, kid," Marcus admitted, entirely nonplussed by the outpouring of love. On the outside, anyway.

Inside, Maria had burgers and brats ready to eat; a perfect summer dinner. Quick and easy to cook en mass.

Dom helped Bennie get a burger. The boy insisted he hated all toppings, including the bun. Except mustard. He loved mustard.

Sylvia let her head rest on Marcus's shoulder. It seemed odd that she could relax so much in his arms, especially considering he stood stock still while holding her. There was no sway to his stance, none of the natural rocking most people fell into when holding a child.

Then again, Marcus was a rock. Maybe Sylvie didn't need rocking to feel absolutely safe in his arms.

Maria appeared at Dom's elbow. "He's got your stubborn streak," Maria teased, referring to Bennie's insistence on eating a hamburger smothered in mustard with no bun with his fingers.

"Are we sure that's not your stubborn streak we're talking about?" Dom asked, placing a hand on her hip and planting a quick kiss on her lips.

Of course, that small taste wasn't enough. His fingertips followed the edge of her smooth silk top around her petite waist, leading Dom to wrap his arm around Maria, drawing her into him and deepening the kiss.

"So, which would you rather have, Sylvie? A little brother, or a little sister?" Marcus asked dryly, effectively interrupting the moment.

Dom drew away, ending the kiss but still holding his wife's slender form close. They shared a small smile. They were caught.

_"Later,"_ Dom mouthed, shooting Maria a wink.

She blushed, letting her arms wrap tight beneath his arms, grabbing two hand-fulls of his shirt directly over his shoulder blades and pulling him so close it got a little hard to breathe. Dom returned the full-hearted embrace, laying a gentle kiss on Maria's soft black hair. She smelled like green apples. Maria used to say it was the only decent scent available in the 'cheap' shampoo section. When they finally started bringing in enough money that they didn't have to constantly scrape by, she still bought the cheap green apple scented shampoo because Dom liked it.

"Uncle Marcus, come sit by me!" Bennie called from the table. He sat on a chair with his knees folded beneath him, eating his burger with his hands. Mustard dripped from his small fingers, and he had a yellow mustache.

"No, Uncle Marcus wants to sit by me," Sylvia decided, turning Marcus's head away from her older brother. Apparently Marcus wasn't even allowed to look at Bennie.

"No, he doesn't!" Bennie insisted.

"Uh huh. When I grow up, I'm going to marry Uncle Marcus."

Marcus came up short at that announcement. His eyes widened and Dom half expected his friend to gape at the tiny girl in his arms. Of course, she was dead serious.

Dom had to hide his smile against the side of Maria's head. It took so much effort to suppress laughter, he actually started to shake. If he knew his wife, she wasn't doing any better. Her nose pressed into his broad shoulder, she was probably grinning against his t-shirt, trying hard not to snicker. The look on Marcus's face was priceless. Dom wasn't quite sure how Marcus would take it if the two of them started laughing at his expense.

Later, when they were alone, they'd probably laugh for hours over this incident.

"You know what's really funny?" Maria whispered. "If she said that ten years from now, we'd be the ones looking shocked."

Dom shook his head, knowing she was right. If his teenage daughter decided she wanted to marry his best friend-seriously, not just fancifully-he'd probably lose it.

* * *

"Hey, Dom. We're here," Cole said, giving Dom's arm a little shake.

Dom snapped awake, sitting bolt upright in his seat and scrambling for his weapon, thinking he must've dropped his Lancer when he fell asleep. Finally regaining his bearings, he found himself sitting in a truck parked behind Bender Fields. Twilight had set over the city and the drive back from the job site was over. "Shit, Cole. You couldn't let me have five more minutes?" he asked, relaxing into the torn leather seat-back, rubbing his face with both hands. "I had her and the kids right in front of me. I could feel them, and smell them. For once we weren't all running for our lives."

Heavy silence settled over the truck. Marcus and Cole knew he wasn't exasperated with them, just with the unfairness of it all. Still, he felt guilty for saying anything. He should've just kept it to himself. Years ago, getting torn from such a dream would've seared acutely. The pain had dulled over time, and the dreams came less often, but Dom still felt deep pangs of regret when he'd wake up still trapped in a nightmare. It didn't help that his dreams were so vivid. In them, everything felt so real. His nightmares were equally vivid. He'd have to ask Chelsea if that was because of the PTSD.

"You need a minute?" Marcus asked.

Dom shook his head absently. "No. Come on. Chelsea's waiting." To show he really meant it, Dom pulled the door release and hopped down from the truck, walking toward the building.

After a minute, he heard the other two follow after him.

* * *

"So, how's dispatch treating you?" Chelsea asked, taking a seat next to Wes on one of the huge flower planters in front of the Bender Fields office. The two of them had gotten kicked out of the building by the cleaning staff, and Wes had offered to wait with her until the crews finished coming in.

"It's boring sometimes, but I hear the most incredible things out of these guys. When they get talking back and forth, sometimes I have to sit there and cover the mic so they won't hear me busting a gut," Wes said, shaking his head and smiling. "Man, Fenix got on some guy from Crew 12 today. Richtner sent them to the wrong site, and it was all cool until one of their guys decided he should defend the decision. Fenix tore him down in about three seconds. He seems like such a quiet, reserved guy, but damn the man has a _colorful_ vocabulary."

Chelsea smiled. "Yeah. Turns out you can take the sergeant out of the Army, but you can't take the sergeant out of the man. He gets like that at home, too. It's just more subtle. The other day Dom leaned over and told me to watch out, because Marcus was really pissed. At first I thought he was jerking my chain. Pissed Marcus looks a little too much like regular Marcus for comfort."

Wes let one side of his mouth curl up in a smile. "It must be pretty interesting, living with those guys."

Chelsea shrugged. "They're actually a lot cleaner than my brothers were. Cole's the really messy one, and he's not even that bad. They're always knocking each other."

After a week of healing, Chelsea's left eye still had a yellow and green tinge around it. The scratches had long since quit oozing and she actually had hope they'd fade completely when healed. Her headaches only came occasionally and her physical balance was nearly normal again. Emotionally, the balance was still up for grabs, but feeling wanted helped.

She kept catching herself studying Wes out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes he'd catch her looking, and she'd blush, grinning guiltily and he'd smile back. He was a handsome guy. He had deep brown eyes and he'd give her these shy smiles. His nose had been broken at some point, with only a small dent to show for it, but when he'd exhale it made a soft whistling sound. The sound was comforting on those occasions when they sat in silence together. After getting dinner on their date, the two of them spent hours together, talking about experiences during the war, mutual acquaintances from various bases and work. They were slowly getting to know each other and it felt incredibly normal. Normal and comfortable.

Chelsea never thought she'd be lucky enough to see normal.

Silence fell over them. Still sporting a tiny smile, Wes reached over the inches between them and gently took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. His hands seemed huge in comparison. He was tanned bronze from spending days out in the sun, and his fingers were well calloused. Running her thumb affectionately over a tiny raised scar on the outside of his index finger, Chelsea sighed, wearing a tiny smile of her own.

It was all baby steps, but it felt so real, so awe inspiring.

A non-company truck pulled up into one of the parking spots along the street, and Chelsea recognized the black and silver vehicle as Baird's. Sure enough, a minute later the blond hopped down, rounding the front of the truck at his usual swift but measured clip.

Everything about him, from the way he squared his shoulders to the swaggering gait, communicated how little he gave a damn what the world thought about him. He'd drive his own path to the moon, if he felt the urge. No barrier, made by man or god, would slow him down.

A force of nature. That could describe all four members of Delta squad, each in his own right.

"You're looking healthy," Chelsea called, and she could practically feel the glow coming into her cheeks. In spite of her best efforts to lock it down, she still felt like she came alive at the sight of him. At least it felt muted compared to what it had been. "How's the throat?"

Damon glanced at the two of them, but kept his distance and didn't pause. "It's good," he called. He definitely sounded much better. "I gotta go punch in. Hey, if you see Cole, tell him I'm good to go tonight."

A little of her smile faded. "Sure, I'll tell him," she agreed, watching him lightly hop up the front stairs and disappear into the building.

"I really get the feeling that guy doesn't like me sometimes," Wes said.

"I think everyone gets that," Chelsea said, watching after where Baird had just gone. Dom, Marcus and Cole emerged from the same door, and they waved at the two of them, making their way over. She raised a hand to return the wave. "Dom says it's part of his charm. I wouldn't worry about it too much. It's not like he actually hates you or anything."

* * *

"I fucking hate that Kendall guy," Baird informed his beer glass. He was actually talking to Cole, but the former thrashball player could hardly hear him over the ruckus around them. The two of them were seated at the bar, half a block down the street from the place where they'd held court a week earlier. Several beers into the night, Damon's head rested in the palm of his hand.

"Ah, man," Cole said. "Don't tell me you're still pissed off about that thing in the woods. Marcus basically got you off the hook for the psych evals. Not even Richtner wants to deal with you _that_ bad."

"Well, there's that. Then there's also the fact that he carries on like he's such a fucking boy scout. The whole world's full of men who've done awful, atrocious things. Why the hell does he get to walk around acting like he's the only one who didn't? I think he's hiding something."

Cole snorted. "Like what?" he asked skeptically.

Too lazy to raise the glass to his lips, Baird tipped it toward himself until he could reach it and take a drink, barely registering the bitter taste. "I'm still working on that part," he admitted after allowing the glass to sit flat on its bottom once again. "Hey, Cole? Why do all these girls like you?" he asked, gesturing to three or four women in short dresses and high heels fluttering around them. Cole had bought a few of them drinks, but mostly he'd stuck with Baird. He seemed to feel guilty about leaving Damon to walk home the week before, and had focused more of his attention than usual on his friend.

Cole shrugged. "Just gotta be nice to 'em, baby. Be smooth. Be a gentleman."

Baird narrowed his eyes. "Do you not know me at all?" he asked cantankerously.

Cole chuckled, patting Baird on the shoulder with one huge hand. "I know you, baby. You got a lot of sharp edges, but you're good where it counts."

"I'm a piece of shit where it counts. Worse, I'm proud of it." Oh, how maudlin he became with a few beers in him. "Shit, man. I'm turning into a complete pussy. Do me a favor and shoot me," he requested, tugging on his bangs, and once again finding them far longer than he liked. If he got any shaggier, he'd actually have to deal with his hair falling in his eyes.

"Naw. Come on. If I shot you, who'd be the Cole Train's wing man? We survived Alpha, we survived Delta. We gonna be together for life. From the war to the nursing home, baby."

"Noooo. We're going to be together until you find some chick you _'really'_ like, and then you'll ditch me. Can't really blame you for it. That's how it's supposed to be, right? That's what we were put here to do."

Cole seemed to think on that for a while. Then, he asked, "Something bugging you, Baird? Something you might want to talk about? I know how you work. Sometimes things get into that thick head and they keep trying to work their way out, and you always hold it in until you explode."

"There's nothing I want to talk about. I'm just, I'm on a plain. There's no up or down; it's a plain. It's flat and there's no end to it. I wanted it so bad, and now I'm here and it sucks." Tipping back his head, Baird did his best to drown the thing that had climbed in and died in his chest with an onslaught of beer.

Of course, that was less than helpful.

Cole drew the word 'Hi' in the frosty condensation on his beer glass with one large fingertip. "Don't take this the wrong way, baby. I know you like your privacy, but you think maybe Marcus had it right when he said you're burning it at both ends? Maybe workin' nights is bringin' you down."

"I like working alone," Baird reminded, taking a big, sighing breath. And then hiccuping, and then groaning at the prospect of having the hiccups.

Cole chuckled low, rotating his glass so he could start drawing a 4-leaf clover. "Yeah, I know that. Who stood next to you all those times, holding a lighter in the middle of a firefight while you worked like a mad man on some junker? You think the Cole Train would hold a light for just anyone? Only did it because you worked better with no one in your way. But, you know, sometimes there's a difference between workin' alone and workin' for yourself."

Suddenly very interested in his own glass, Baird let his upper lip curl upward in contemplation. "Working for myself," he repeated. "Wouldn't that be nice. Start my own shop. Get some investors. Run the place myself."

"There you go, baby. Sounds like a plan."

"Yeah, I thought of that already," Baird informed him. "There's the small issues of lack of space, lack of equipment, lack of investors. Besides, I hate customer service and who the hell would work for me?"

Cole shrugged. "I would," he said, after a pause. He held out his glass. "Baby, you start your own shop, and the Cole Train's smiling face will greet every customer who comes in the door. That's a promise."

Baird didn't seem to know what to think about the offer, but he finally clinked his own glass against Cole's. "Yeah. I'll drink to that."

And he did.

* * *

Still lightly buzzed, Cole waved at Damon when he drove past after dropping Cole off at his apartment complex. It had been a good night. Instead of drinking heavy, the two of them had a few beers and hashed some things out. They'd even headed home early compared to other nights out on the town.

Humming a tune his mother used to sing, Cole meandered up the staircases, his mind wandering. He knew he was lucky. Unlike most people, Cole could just go with the flow. Even when he played ball and had been a big deal. He loved the attention, loved the spectacle and competition. Still, if he hadn't made it, he still would've been happy. Working at Bender Fields wasn't always fun, but he had his people around him. Would he like to have more? Sure, but he didn't need it.

Cole had good friends, good times, and no more war. Baird had all that, but he couldn't always see it. He needed more, and Cole didn't know what it would take to boost the blond's self-esteem and get him to loosen up a little, but it would probably have to be pretty special.

Letting his fuzzy brain try to sort out the Baird puzzle made the climb pass quickly. Before he knew it, he was turning his key in the deadbolt.

Instead of opening into a dark, quiet apartment, he found the lights still on. Marcus and Chelsea were seated on the couch, and Dom was on one of the crates. They were playing cards, and when he walked in, Chelsea whipped around, a huge smile on her face.

"Cole!" she called, snatching something off the table and bouncing over the back of the couch to meet him. Slightly out of breath, she scooted to a halt in front of him, shoving an envelope at him. "You gotta open it. It's from the NTL."

Hardly able to breathe, Cole took the letter from her and went to work on opening it. Unfolding the single piece of paper within, he skimmed over the contents.

"What's the word, Cole?" Dom asked. "They want you back?"

Cole grinned. "Hell yeah, baby. They want the Cole Train as _Captain_ of the newly established Gears Thrashball Team. They're gonna collect a few guys who played before the war as seeds, and have try outs for the rest. Gonna make two teams. Gears and Navy. Camp starts late this summer."

Positively beaming, Chelsea threw her arms around Cole's neck. "Congrats, Cole!" He returned the embrace with one arm, patting her on the back.

"Congrats, man," Dom echoed, and Marcus nodded his encouragement. The grizzled sergeant actually had half a smile on his face.

This here was Cole's family. His smile faded a little when he realized going back to Thrashball would mean he'd have to leave them.

* * *

_AN: By the way, 'Jacoby' is another character the guy who voices Marcus did. I've pretty much decided to name all forthcoming towns, buildings, companies, etc. after characters he's voiced. Bender from Futurama is another of his characters-and speaking of Bender, I have a crazy idea for a funny Gears fic and hopefully one of these days I'll get a chance to sit down and write it;-) _

_Oh yes, and don't forget to feed the muse...please :-D  
_


	22. Chapter 22

_AN: My computer died for a while, but it's better now. Finally, finally got this out. Didn't take a lot of time to edit, so shred away. Some requested more action in the story, and I hope I got it going here. Let me know if you like it. I love writing this story, but it is a lot of work, so let me know what parts do it for you ;-) It helps get the creative juices flowing._

* * *

Stretching out her right arm across her chest, Chelsea hopped from foot to foot, trying to get warmed up. It was a cool, clear morning, and she could just barely see her breath each time she exhaled. Most of the city was still asleep, with a few stragglers finally heading home after a long night and a few others just getting up and starting to go about their business.

Dom had been up early that morning, and although he tried to move quietly through the apartment, Chelsea heard him making coffee and got up to join him for an early morning run.

"How do they feel?" Dom asked, referring to her 'new' tennis shoes. He'd snagged a used pair of standard COG issue women's running shoes in approximately Chelsea's size from a guy on another crew in exchange for negotiating a shift change with the swing shift manager.

"Good," Chelsea nodded. In truth they were a little worn and without much arch support, but they fit without rubbing. It was more than she'd had since leaving the COG. Regardless of the shoes, she wasn't expecting much out of this run. PT was a long faded memory where her muscles were concerned. "Why aren't Cole and Marcus going with us?"

Dom chuckled, placing a hand on her shoulder for balance while pulling his foot up and stretching his quad. He was decked out in sweats and tennis shoes. "Well, Cole's not much of a morning person. And Marcus..." he trailed off, and then shook his head. "I don't know. He seemed pretty edgy last night after work. Richtner sent him over to the Islander district to survey the next building we're supposed to demo."

Chelsea nodded. "I think I can understand where he's coming from." She was quickly gaining an appreciation for the amount of crap Marcus had to put up with from Richtner. The guy had come into her office several times just in the past few days, demanding to see progress in her veteran acclimation effort. She'd hardly had a chance to get started with it and he wanted solid, measurable results.

It was all she could do to not throw him out her window.

Dom shrugged. "Yeah, well there's that. And the ugly truth is Marcus hates running. He had asthma as a kid. He'll do an easy couple miles, just enough to keep his endurance up, but absolutely no more than necessary. It's why he never tried for commando. When we were teenagers we'd come home on leave and I'd usually finish five or ten miles before Carlos and Marcus got up in the morning."

Chelsea raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Ten miles?" she repeated. "Do you really think I'm in that good of shape? Because I'll tell you right now. I'm not."

Bemused, Dom switched to stretching the other quad, changing hands on her shoulder. "I was a lot lighter back then," he admitted. "Commandos tend to carry less bulk."

Contemplating that high number made her self-conscious. She had confidence she could keep up with the average female officer, but with a front-line Gear? "Are you sure I'm not going to slow you down too much?" she asked, self conscious.

"Na. It's been a long winter. A nice slow jog to get the kinks out sounds good to me," he said, putting both feet on the ground and rolling his shoulders, and then his neck, inspiring a few impressive pops. "You ready?" he asked.

Chelsea sighed, glancing at the blocks and blocks of nearly-empty pavement ahead of her. If there was one thing she didn't miss about the COG, running was it. "Ready as I'll ever be."

They started off at a slow jog, falling into an easy pace they could both maintain comfortably. It took a few minutes, but once Chelsea's muscles warmed up the ground flew beneath her new tennis shoes. A cramp started to form on her right side, but she kept breathing through it, and eventually the cramp eased off enough to tolerate.

"So how's it going with Wes?" Dom asked after they had a couple blocks under their belts, the words coming easily for him.

Chelsea had to work to control her breathing to speak. "It's going good," she said. "We had a nice, pleasant dinner. Did some nice pleasant talking."

"Did he kiss you?" Dom asked, mirthful. Conversing while running didn't seem to be quite enough excitement for him, so he added a little shadow boxing into the mix, jabbing the air directly in front of him with closed fists, mimicking the duck-and-weave head movements of a boxer.

Chelsea eyed him, unimpressed by his enthusiasm. "We're not there yet," she informed him. "You guys make it hard. Next to the four of you, the rest of the male populous pales in comparison."

It was true. From a purely physical standpoint, Chelsea would be thrilled to garner interest from any of the former members of Delta. Fantasy was far from reality, but she'd seen all four of them shirtless, and done a little harmless fantasizing. She found Dom especially cute, considering he seemed to have no clue he had a physique that would make any woman a little weak in the knees.

"Man, I knew it. I keep telling Marcus we should lay off the steroids, give the rest of the guys in the world half a chance. I think he just likes to keep women hanging by a string," Dom joked.

Even though the four of them looked like small steers, their physiques weren't the result of drugs. Front line Gears were kept on high protein diets and a strict PT routine for years. Like body builders, it took a long time to develop the mature musculature of the average Gear.

Dom skirted around a lamp post, falling in behind her, and then returning to her side. "For the record, it is better for my nerves if you two take it nice and slow."

"Like you did?" she teased.

"Hey," Dom protested. "We're not talking about me here. Maria and I weren't getting repopulation shoved down our throats—not that it would've changed anything," he grumbled that last part to himself. "If Wes tries to feed you bullshit about doing your civic duty, I'll punch him in the teeth."

"I think Wes is a nice guy."

Dom laid a '_come on_' look on her. "I was a nice kid too. Even nice kids get in over their heads sometimes."

"So you don't like Wes?" Chelsea asked, skeptical.

"He's not the brightest, but I'll like him until he gives me a reason to want him dead."

Chelsea thought on that a moment. It was really nice, having a man like Dom watching her back. Her brothers had been fairly supportive, but never so directly. If they were still here, would they threaten to punch a guy in the teeth for her? She didn't know. She felt protective of the people she cared about, but guys were different.

"Thanks, Dom," she said softly.

"And yeah," he continued. "I am going to teach you how to knife fight. Make sure you can keep Wes on his toes."

That drew a short laugh from her. "You know," she said. "I think my mom would really like you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Want to come with me to visit her tomorrow? It's a long hike up to VA Assisted, and I could use the company."

"Sure. I'll go with you. Now come on. I'll race you to the end of the block," he said, taking off.

"Hey, wait up!" Chelsea protested breathlessly, trying to get her legs to pump faster.

Dom slowed at the next intersection, a smile on his face when she finally caught up, huffing and puffing. He was barely winded.

"Don't die," he said, eyes sparking with amusement.

"Don't make me smack you," Chelsea threatened, placing her hands on her sides and bending over, trying to catch her breath. She definitely had a long way to go to get back in shape.

"Hey, Ms. Ferria!" a woman called.

Straightening up, Chelsea looked around for the source of the voice, and found one of the dispatch girls from work walking quickly across the intersection to join the two of them.

The woman was tall and dark skinned with her hair braided close to her skull. Chelsea vaguely remembered seeing her around Bender Fields. She was in her mid-twenties.

"Ms. Ferria," the woman said, flashing a big smile when she caught up with them. "Ms. Ferria, I'm Terri Cain, I work..."

"At Bender. Yeah, I've seen you around," Chelsea shook the hand Terri offered.

"You're looking good," Terri said. "I'm really glad. I saw you, after that guy finished wailing on you."

Placing her hands on her sides, Chelsea's eyes focused on the ground. She still had a hard time going back to those memories. The nightmares hadn't even started to abate yet.

"Yeah, I'm doing better," she said, trying to revive the smile that had just flat lined right off her face. "Headaches finally stopped a couple days ago. My doctor here," she nodded to Dom, "finally cleared me for some light exercise."

Terri nodded, her brow etched with sympathy. "That must've been really terrible. But you came out on top."

Did people really see it that way? It sure didn't feel like it. "Yeah, I guess," Chelsea said, shuffling her feet. Her new tennis shoes had come untied, and she flipped the loose laces from one side to the other.

"That's what I want to talk to you about. I want to learn how to fight like you," Terri said, and she really meant it. Glancing up in surprise at the request, Chelsea found real enthusiasm and something bordering on desperation in Terri's dark brown eyes. "My husband just got called back into the Navy. I'm going to be alone with our daughter for months, maybe longer. I don't have much, but I could pay you."

Chelsea could only blink at the other woman. "I...I want to, but I don't have a place to train anymore."

"We have a place," Dom put in. "It's across from the old church. We could head over there tomorrow. Show her a couple things."

"Would you?" Terri asked, looking between the two of them.

"Sure," Chelsea said, already making a mental list of some of the basics she could impart on a female student. "How about four or so, tomorrow afternoon?"

Terri gave her a tight smile, taking her hand in both of hers in a show of gratitude. "I'll be there. Thank you so much. Both of you," she said, backing away. "Bye!" she called, waving over her shoulder.

Chelsea returned the wave, sighing. "Do you think this is a good idea?" she asked.

Dom shrugged, a small smile playing across his face. "Yeah, I do," he said. Then he smacked her shoulder. "Come on. We got a ways to go before we can head back."

She groaned. "More running?"

Dom grinned. She was starting to see why Marcus wasn't so enthusiastic about the sport. Dom just made it look a little too easy, and had a little too much fun rubbing it in.

"Come on, kid," he said, starting off at a slow jog. "Let's see what you got."

Chelsea shook her head, forcing herself to jog after him.

He really was going to kill her.

* * *

Baird cleared his throat, scratching at his freshly buzzed head and then adjusting the strap on his goggles. He'd shaved his hair down to a quarter inch high-and-tight early that morning, tapering the sides and back. The low-maintenance cut probably saved him from looking rough and ruffled after a day of pulling on it.

He had a file with him. The culmination of his research. The weight of it was burning a hole in his ruck and he'd decided he couldn't just sit on it. He needed to share it with someone. Someone rational, and with a cooler head than his—in other words, anyone but Santiago.

Thus, in spite of his better judgment, he'd shown up for Cole's impromptu celebration. Doubtless the first of many parties marking the Cole Train's return to Thrashball.

In hindsight this event was inevitable. Damon could hardly believe he hadn't seen it coming. Cole would dive back into the limelight. An instant celebrity circle would form around the two new teams, and Gus would be the star. The enormous pull of his personality would ensure his success just as much as his physical abilities.

The apartment door opened suddenly, and Cole greeted him with a big smile. "You made it, baby!" He thumped Damon on the back enthusiastically with one huge hand. Cole eyed his head with amusement. "See you've been playing with the clippers again."

Baird shook his head warningly. "Don't start, man." He usually let Cole cut his hair, but sometimes it just got too long and he couldn't stand to wait.

"That bot you've got can't shave your head for you? You missed a few spots."

Baird rubbed at his head defensively. He definitely had missed a few spots. More than a few, actually. "Like you could do a better high-and-tight on yourself? Your arms are so damn big I'll bet you can't even reach the back of your head."

Cole's grin toned down to bemusement. "Ah, I wouldn't say that, baby. The Cole Train has his ways. Might even be able to salvage that sorry excuse for a haircut."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Can we get on with it already?"

Cole shrugged. "Waiting on you, baby."

Shifting the ruck on his shoulder, Baird took a couple deep breaths, reaching a place of inner calm stable enough to carry him through what he knew had to be done. Finally, when he felt ready, he slugged Cole's large bicep with a loose fist, and said, "Congratulations, man. You deserve it." He didn't even sound entirely disingenuous.

The two men stood in silence for a long moment, Damon awkward after making the strenuous effort of extending praise and Gus with a barely contained smile on his face. "Aww, you gonna miss me, baby?"

Baird let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Shut up, man."

"Everyone misses the Train, baby."

"Shut. Up," Damon enunciated, walking past the larger man. "And I was promised whiskey. Why don't you make yourself useful and pour me a drink? Unless you're too '_famous'_ for such menial tasks."

Chuckling, Cole followed Baird inside. "For you, Damon? Never."

It was a small gathering. The four members of Delta, a few guys from work and their girls, Chelsea and, of course, Wes Kendall.

The closet door table had been dismantled to make room for people to sit around in the living room. Chelsea and Kendall had claimed the couch, and they were fully engaged playing some sort of charades game with Dom and several of the other couples present.

"Man, you guys went all out. I actually see a couple lawn chairs over there," Baird commented, following Cole into the kitchen area. "I mean, that's almost like having big boy chairs. I'm sure it's a big step toward adulthood for you guys."

"Collins brought 'em. He remembered the last time he came over. Guess he didn't have a good time sittin' on the crates."

"I can't _imagine_ why."

Pouring soda and liquor into two glasses, Cole just shook his head and chuckled real low. "Ah, baby," he said, smiling big and handing Baird his drink and holding out his own in a toast. "Don't ever change."

"If the impending doom of humanity can't do it, nothing will," Baird agreed, clinking his glass against Cole's and taking a long swig. He made a face. "Damn. How old is that soda?"

"It never goes bad," Gus assured him.

"It's flatter than Hoffman's sense of humor."

"Don't think that's possible, baby."

"Hey, Cole. We're dying over here. Come back and play," Collins called. He was approximately Damon's age; a slight, dark haired young man from another crew. In the COG he served as a communications officer. At Bender Fields he worked crew 12 and was known as a heartbreaker among some of the dispatch girls.

The rest of the group echoed Collin's sentiment in a chorus.

Cole glanced at Damon. "You good?" he asked, nodding at the engineer's drink.

"Seriously?" Baird asked, running his finger around the rim of the glass. "You're leaving me for that bullshit?"

Cole drained his drink. "Baby, there's no game the Cole Train can't win."

"I thought you had standards."

Cole mused over that while making his way over to join the game. "Wouldn't spend much time with you if I did."

"Hey, I'm a _joy_ to be around," Baird insisted.

Cole waved him off, turning to join the game in progress. Damon huffed at his retreating back, taking his drink and making his way over to the section of counter where Fenix had set up shop; far enough away to not get included in the game, but close enough that he wasn't obviously separated from the group.

Leaning against the counter next to Marcus, Baird nodded to him. "Need to talk to you," Damon informed the sergeant, taking a sip from his glass.

"It can wait," Marcus grunted. Baird followed his gaze to Dom and Cole attempting to act out a truck and trailer, with Dom following Cole around the living room with his hands on Gus's shoulders.

"A blind guy!" one of the women guessed.

"Following? Leading?" Collins guessed.

The others were doing equally well with their guesses.

Damon gave Fenix a '_you should be ashamed' _look and slowly shook his head. "_Really_? This is so captivating? Excuse me. I mistook you for a man."

"You also mistook me for a guy who gives a shit what you think."

"Fenix, I'm serious."

"So am I. Later, Baird." Damon started to speak, but Marcus's eyes narrowed fractionally and his voice fell to its deepest, most intimidating pitch, "_Later._"

Baird closed his mouth, teeth clenched so tight the large muscle along his jaw stood out, his entire body strung tighter than a bowstring. All of a sudden he felt the urge to punch the former sergeant in the mouth. If Marcus picked up on the murderous glare Damon shot his way, he gave no indication.

Laughter traveled through the crowd. They'd finally guessed what Dom and Cole were acting out. Or, more likely, the timer had run out.

"All right," Cole said, clapping his hands together once. "I don' know about the rest of you all, but the Cole Train is sufficiently buzzed and getting hungry. We ain't the best cooks around here, so if you all want to eat, we're gonna have to move the party to another establishment."

"There's a place with pizza down the street," Collins suggested.

A murmur of agreement traveled through the room.

Cole nodded. "That sounds great, baby. Let's get rolling."

Dom cleared his throat, and Gus glanced over his shoulder at him. Arms crossed over his chest, Dom raised one eyebrow at his roommate.

In spite of the buzz, Cole got the message. "Actually," he amended. "Why don't you all head down there, and we'll do a little cleaning up here and then catch up in ten."

Damon watched the small group file out the door. Kendall decided to go on with them. Chelsea decided to stay behind, even though Santiago excused her from the cleaning session.

"Teacher's pet," Baird grumbled under his breath, wishing she was close enough to hear him. He could imagine the mock-annoyed glare she'd shoot his way, and the smirk he'd give her back, which in turn would inspire her to break down and let him see her nice smile, the one that almost let her teeth show.

They definitely had the smart-ass banter down.

He kicked himself mentally for missing it.

"See you soon," Wes said at the doorway, sweeping a few strands of her hair back and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Damon averted his eyes, taking a drink and working hard to beat down the flare of frustration he felt. God, that kid worked his nerves.

Looking embarrassed, Chelsea waved good-bye to her boyfriend, closing the door behind Wes, making her way over to help Dom and Cole pick up plates and glasses littering the living room.

"Chelsea an' Wes, sittin' in a tree," Cole started to sing.

Chelsea blushed a deep shade of red, and smacked him on the shoulder. "Shut up," she said, continuing to negotiate the room and pick up glasses and dishes. Cole only laughed harder when she hit him.

"Thought you said he hadn't kissed you yet," Dom chimed in while collecting the folding chairs.

"That doesn't count! Uh, you guys are incorrigible!"

"I'm what?" Cole asked Dom.

Santiago just shrugged, playing dumb. "Must be Shrink-speak."

Their teasing drew an annoyed groan from their female roommate.

Baird nudged Marcus with an elbow. "Come on. Party's broken up and I have something I need to show you."

Fenix sighed. "I'm only going to say this one more time, Baird. _Not_ tonight. Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it tonight." Then he drained his drink, and it struck Baird like a smack in the face.

Marcus was drunk. Not falling-down in the street drunk, but somewhere beyond buzzed and into the realm of self-destructive. He'd never seen Marcus drink more than a couple beers, but damn could the guy hold his liquor. Without a keen eye, there seemed to be little difference between sober brooding Marcus and liquored-up brooding Marcus.

"Man, what the hell is your problem? No. You know what? Fuck it. I don't give a shit. The one time I ever asked you for anything..." Baird growled under his breath. Fenix started to respond, but Damon cut him off. "Yeah, I got it. Not tonight. Well don't worry, I'll just..."

"Excuse me," Chelsea said, standing in front of them with a stack of dishes. "I need to get to the sink," she said quietly, obviously trying to stay out of the unpleasantness between them.

They both moved to the side, giving her room to place the pile she held in the sink just as someone knocked on the door.

"I got it," Cole said, jogging over to open the door.

* * *

Dom joined Chelsea at the sink, carrying his own stack of dishes. She moved aside to make room for him, feeling the slightest brush of his forearm against hers as he squeezed in between her and Baird. Dom exchanged a look with Marcus in regard to the unexpected knock on the front door. "Maybe it's Bernie?" Dom suggested.

Marcus shook his head, placing his glass on the counter and reaching over with one hand to pour himself another drink. "Talked to her this morning. Said she couldn't make it."

"Hey, you know Boomer-Lady," Cole said, reaching for the door knob. "She can get out of just about anything."

Moving to fill the void next to her once Dom turned away to continue the cleanup, Baird wiped his mouth with an open palm, setting his glass down in the sink. "Haven't seen the old bat getting out of any trees without help lately," he grumbled.

Chelsea gave him a 'where did that come from?' look, and he gave her a goofy 'don't know what you mean' glance in return.

After Cole opened the door, Chelsea heard a man say in a brusque tone, "My name is Jeff O'Connel, and I'm with the Population Control Division. I'm looking for a woman named Chelsea Ferria."

She froze, her eyes desperately raking the room for a hiding place. It was a warm evening, and the living room window was cracked open for air. The fire escape was just outside, and she might not make it to the ground, but maybe she could get away.

Chelsea would've bolted for the window, but Baird grabbed her arm, holding her against him. "Don't be stupid," he hissed. "It's nearly rusted through. It wouldn't hold your weight."

Panicked, Chelsea jerked against his hold on her arm. "Let me go!" she whispered harshly, trying desperately to get free. She glanced to Marcus for help, only to find him carefully avoiding her eye.

Damon pulled her closer, dropping his ruck on the floor and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, holding her tight against his chest. "Play along and it'll be all right," he said against her ear.

Did she trust him?

"Come on," he said, tugging on her arm, and she must've believed him because she relaxed, letting him turn her around and arrange her against him. He leaned against the counter, steering her close so her back rested against his front, both of his arms wrapped around her waist, his hands covering hers and stacking them one on top of the other. "Relax," he reminded.

Letting out the breath she'd been holding, Chelsea consciously forced the muscles in her shoulders and upper back to relax. She settled against Baird's solid form, letting her head rest against his shoulder. He was warm, and his breathing came evenly. She tried to match each breath to his, but her heart continued to race, pumping adrenaline through her entire body.

If he weren't holding her, she'd be trembling.

Jeff O'Connel must've pushed past a stunned Cole, because he walked straight in, looking around and spotting her, the only female in the room. "Are you Chelsea Ferria?" he asked.

"Who's asking?" Baird shot back before any of them could collect enough of their wits to respond. They'd all been drinking. None of them were wasted, but Damon would be the closest to sober amidst their rank.

"Jeff O'Connel, PCD. We've had a report that Ms. Ferria is living at this residence with no present blood relatives, nor any intention to abide by the breeding laws."

"What're you talking about?" Damon asked. "We've got three kids." He sounded so assured when he said it, Chelsea almost turned around to look at him in shock and ask '_Since when_?'

O'Connel came up short. "I was unaware that Ms. Ferria had any children."

"Yeah, we do," he said, with a snarky ease. Baird stared at O'Connel with his smuggest look on his face.

"May I see them?" O'Connel finally prompted.

Baird gestured around him with a jerk of his head. "You're looking at them. That's Dom, Marcus, and that's Gus. They're ugly bastards, but what're you gonna do?"

Taken aback, O'Connel looked around at the three menacing men surrounding him. All three were grizzled former Gears, all obviously several years older than Chelsea, and at least a couple years older than Baird. All of them were entirely un-amused and looked like hard sons-of-bitches who'd enjoy proving they could rip off parts of his anatomy.

"I know what you're thinking," Damon said. "Believe me, I've thought it too. Sometimes I think that one's the mail man's kid," he said, jerking a thumb in Marcus's direction and then placing his hand back on top of Chelsea's. "I mean, look at him. There's no resemblance at all."

O'Connel fiddled with his glasses. It was slow and deliberate. Chelsea wondered if he was trying to cover up the fact that he was about to piss himself. "Sir, I don't know who you are, but I am not amused. I realize that sometimes the law may seem harsh, but it's there for a reason. Repopulating the planet is no laughing matter."

Baird rolled his eyes. "Relax, Poindexter. And save the speech. We're doing our civic duty."

O'Connel's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. "Oh, really?"

"You better believe it," Baird said, staring down the man in front of him while suggestively stroking Chelsea's abdomen with his fingertips, like that part of her belonged to him. The combination of that touch and the implication behind it inspired a completely different kind of shiver to run through her body, something just as deep and primal as raw fear. "I mean, getting her knocked up is pretty much in the bag, but it's fun to have an excuse to go at it anyway. And believe me—we do. Like friggin' rabbits." He glanced at his watch, "Speaking of which."

Without saying more, he moved away from the counter, turning Chelsea abruptly around and tossing her casually over one shoulder, hooking his arm around her legs to keep her from falling on her head. With blood pounding in her cheeks, Chelsea braced her hands against the small of Damon's broad back. In spite of being uncomfortable, she couldn't help marveling at how easily he could lift her and how solid he felt beneath her.

Once he got her situated on his shoulder, he gave her a slap on the ass that made her yelp.

"You know you love it," he said, sauntering toward the bedrooms, waving with his free arm without looking back. "See you guys in the morning." He walked into Marcus's room, and kicked the door shut behind him.

Once they were alone, Baird set her down on her feet in the middle of the room, giving her some distance. "You in there?" he asked after a minute.

Until he said something, she didn't realize she was staring blankly at nothing. She couldn't hold onto a single thought for more than an instant.

"I am so screwed," she finally whispered. "He's going to call in a squad of MPs and take me out of here. I have to go. I have to get away before you guys..."

"Stop." Baird grabbed her by the shoulders. She continued to ramble on until he gave her a little shake. "Stop it," he repeated, and this time she did. She clamped her mouth shut and looked at him, waiting for him to tell her what to do.

"Why did you help me?" she blurted, just when he started to say something.

He didn't even pause. "Because, I got to cop a feel without getting slapped, for one. And for two, if the COG wanted to keep you for breeding, they sure as hell should've thought of that before they threw you out with the trash."

"I can't get them in trouble," Chelsea pleaded softly, glancing toward the door so he'd know she meant Marcus, Gus and Dom.

"So, what? You're going to turn yourself in?" he demanded.

She dropped her eyes to the floor. They were both wearing COG issue boots. Black, waterproofed and high-topped. He stood just inches away, but it could've been miles. "Not exactly," she admitted.

She would have to run. Tonight. How the hell could she have ever thought this was a good idea? Now she'd have to give up her home, the guys, her job, her entire life. She wouldn't be able to apply for employment again, or they'd pick her up. After the war, the COG invested a lot of man hours into reestablishing a communication network on Sera. It took time, but they could track someone's employment almost anywhere. Suddenly Chelsea felt like someone had reached inside her chest with an icy fist and grabbed her heart, squeezing until she couldn't breathe.

"You can't fight them by yourself," Baird whispered, standing so close she could feel his warmth. With a pang of regret, she wished that moment in the kitchen hadn't been just a show.

"I know I can't," she said quietly. All too clearly, Chelsea could see her only two options. She could allow the COG to force her to carry a child fathered by a stranger, or she could run, hoping to find some small corner of the world where the COG didn't rule.

Who would take care of her mother, if she left?

Slowly, her eyes blurred with unshed tears. She didn't want to cry in front of him. But she didn't want to die, either, and this path seemed to lead in that direction with disparaging certainty. The odds that she would make it out on her own were all but hopeless, and that was if she made it past all of the checkpoints on her way out of the city.

Chelsea tried her level best to control her breathing. Deep, even breaths, only occasionally hitched by a sob trying to find its way out. She didn't make a sound, but he had to know. People didn't naturally stare straight down for extended periods of time.

The door cracked, and there was a soft knock.

Damon exchanged words with whoever had opened the door, but Chelsea didn't hear any of it. The next thing she knew, Dom had pulled her into his side, and was leading her out of Marcus's dimly lit room. "It'll be okay," he kept saying, over and over.

It felt too bright in the living room. Chelsea knew she should be getting ready to make a dash for the door, but she didn't know where she'd find the energy.

But when she looked up, she found the man from PCD was gone. Chelsea looked around for him.

"Where'd he go?" she asked, wiping at her eyes.

"We, ah, persuaded him to get lost," Cole said, his tone implying they had persuaded him harder than necessary.

"He said the two of you," Marcus pointed between Chelsea and Baird, who stood behind her and Dom, "have ten days to register your union. After that, they're going to assign Chelsea a partner."

Slowly, she wrapped her brain around that. "One of you guys," she ventured. "I'll get a Conception Order with one of you listed as the mandatory contributor." Some deep, traitorous part of her asked '_how bad could that be?'_ It wouldn't be a stranger. She wouldn't have to run away. She wouldn't get dragged off to a farm.

Baird scoffed. "Mandatory contributor. I guess that's one way to put it."

Silent tears fell down her cheeks, and she quickly wiped them away. "I need air," she said, abruptly pulling out from under Dom's arm and making for the doorway.

"Whoa, slow down there, baby." Cole stopped her at the doorway. "Not really a time for you to be out on your own."

Chelsea bit her lip. She couldn't break down in front of them. Not all of them at once, anyway. They weren't falling over themselves to feel sorry for her, but they were all looking at her and seeing weakness, and that was bad enough. The press of it was suffocating. The only way she'd get a handle on this rollercoaster was if she put distance between her and them. "I'll be fine," she said. The words were soft, but with a hint of iron behind them. Her pistol was clipped to her belt and she knew how to handle herself. She didn't need an escort.

Cole gave her a small smile. "Yeah, you will, baby." He opened the door, ushering her out ahead of him, but still accompanying her.

Sighing, she resigned herself to the lack of privacy. At least it was Cole. Somehow that felt like the next best thing to privacy. If she didn't want it, he wouldn't offer pity.

She stepped out into the hall, and Cole followed a few steps behind her.

* * *

Upon arriving home, Baird threw down his ruck on the kitchen table. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he popped the cap with his belt buckle and then turned a chair around backward and took a seat, blowing out a long, frustrated breath.

It was a rare thing for him to admit he needed guidance. He felt like he'd gotten in too deep on this one, and for a second there he'd actually thought he could count on Fenix to bail him out, tell him what to do.

Reaching across the table and snagging the canvas ruck with his fingertips, he dragged it over, unzipping it and pulling out the file inside. He'd looked over the stuff dozens of times, and he still didn't quite know what to do with it.

With his jaw propped on one fist, he flipped lazily through the pictures and reports. Two dead bodies, stabbed in the neck, upper arm and chest by a left handed assailant.

Thoughtful, Baird sipped his beer, the cold bitterness gripping his throat and hitting his stomach like a hammer. He hadn't slept well all week, first because of the strep, and then later because of the contents of this file. On his own, he struggled to put the data into context. What the hell did two bodies mean in this day and age? Even a girl like Chelsea Ferria had a body count topping a half dozen. Shit, it was weird to run into someone who _hadn't_ ever been forced to slot someone.

_Or something..._ Baird thought morbidly.

His bot puttered into the kitchen, making a series of inquiring beeps.

"Buzz off," he told it, in no mood to deal with machines or people. After Cole and Chelsea took off to 'get some air' he waited around for a while, half hoping they'd come back. Everything happened so fast, he didn't get a chance to process. One minute she was standing in front of him about to break down in tears, and the next thing he knew Dom swept her up under his wing, propping her up.

He'd frozen at the prospect of dealing with a sobbing girl, almost relieved when Santiago took her off his hands.

Damon scowled, frustrated.

What the hell did he care if they dragged the chick off to a farm? He didn't give a damn about her. So she had a nice body? Big deal. Most girls had nice bodies these days, assuming they weren't worn out from production lining kids. If they didn't come by it naturally, then severe food rationing did the trick.

Damon sighed, once again bringing the bottle to his lips. He'd never thought he had a type, but if he scrutinized hard enough, he could find attributes that he tended to lean toward, even with limited exposure to women over the course of his life. A woman used up by life did nothing for him. He'd never paid for sex, but he'd come damn close to that sort of an exchange: fast and dirty somewhere semi-private. He'd hated it.

Ever since his revelation in the alleyway with Red, when he discovered just how physically attracted he was to Chelsea, he started to examine the _why_ of it from every angle. Just like any machine, something had to fuel attraction. He thought about her all the time now, and she was like gasoline on his fire.

So he started with what he knew about himself, and about women he'd been attracted to in the past, and connected the parallel lines.

He had a thing for chicks who ruled their own sexual destinies, and he preferred a woman with less experience than more. He'd flippantly told Chelsea he could be a jealous boyfriend and it was true. It had happened, once or twice, that he gave in and let himself give a shit about a member of the opposite sex. He found out the hard way that a girl willing to jump from guy to guy, bed to bed, wouldn't change for him. In a world full of men, what the hell did he have to offer that was so special?

So when a girl of his attracted attention, from a man or a woman, he rarely took it gracefully.

Damon closed the file, spinning the folder on the tabletop with one finger.

This sort of problem didn't fall into his wheelhouse. Mechanics and engineering came so naturally to him, he rarely needed to consult outside sources. He needed help with this, because he couldn't afford to be wrong; either about his motives for collecting this information or about its meaning.

He needed undeniable proof, and he needed a place to start.

Baird thought about it a little more and decided Santiago was a good place to start.


	23. Chapter 23

"I don't want to see anyone, Cole," Chelsea argued, dragging her feet. It didn't matter much. No matter how she tried to dawdle, Cole's gentle grip on her arm kept her walking at a fast clip down the sidewalk.

"Gotta eat," Cole reminded for the fifth time. For a man like Cole, eating and sleeping kept a body alive, and he felt she should concentrate on that regardless of everything else.

He was probably right, but she still felt the urge to resist on principle.

"God, what am I going to say to Wes?" she asked rhetorically. "Oh, Wes, good to see you! Oh, did I tell you? In ten days I'm going to be ordered to breed with one of my roommates. Or I could register a union with a smartass engineer, who sends really mixed signals by the way," she grumbled. "Oh, you want to know why I won't register a union with you, my boyfriend? Well, I guess I'm just not ready for commitment. But the COG sure thinks I am!"

Chelsea slipped free of Cole's grip, fiercely kicking a trashcan with a black combat boot, and absolutely devastating it. Hurting her foot with each impact, she followed the can as it rolled down the alley, each kick increasing the size of the dent in the side of the tin can.

"Now that I have no guaranteed home, they think I need commitment and motherhood. Because, of course, they know what's best for me. Just like they thought I desperately needed a career change when they kicked my ass to the curb," she snarled.

Cole chased her down, getting a hold on her elbow again, but not before she got one last kick on the trash can, sending it rolling to the very back of the alley where it crashed against the wall.

Going quietly after her outburst, Chelsea let Cole pull her along, letting out a sad sigh. Her eyes were puffy and she could feel where tear streaks had dried on her cheeks. After sitting with her for a long time in the cool night air, Cole decided she needed to come with him to get some food

"You gonna be all right, baby," Cole said, still lumbering on, seemingly unaware that his slow plodding forced her to almost jog to keep up. He refused to release her arm on the outside chance she might bolt on him. "Jus' let the Train buy you a drink, and things'll start lookin' up."

"Are you sure the COG would approve of that? I mean, they're planning on renting out my womb by next week. Maybe I should just throw up my hands and start acting like a prospective mother."

Cole started to chuckle, shaking his head.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" Chelsea asked dryly.

"Nothing, Shrink Lady. You just funny, that's all."

"Yeah, I'm hilarious. Here's my question. Are you still going to be laughing if they list you as the MC on the Conception Order?"

"MC, huh? That how the kids say 'baby daddy' these days?"

"Welcome to the post-war world. MCs and general misery for everyone."

Glancing up at the sign above one of the bars, Cole pushed open the door and led her inside. "Yeah, seems like it," he agreed.

* * *

Long after the guys went to sleep, Chelsea laid awake, staring at the ceiling. In the dark she could vaguely see the outline of the curtains above her. Her eyes felt too-dry and tired, but she couldn't sleep.

After Cole joined up with his party-goers at the bar, she'd taken Wes aside and told him what had happened, leaving out the details of what Baird had done and the fact that she was under the gun for a conception order.

"What do you want to do?" he'd asked, trying to pull her closer under his arm, like he could shield her from all this.

Chelsea had hesitated for just a second, before letting him pull her in. She couldn't quite nail it down, but with Wes she always felt just a little bit of resistance. Comfortable silences that weren't quite comfortable. She didn't know him yet. They were barely more than acquaintances and she hadn't decided yet if she wanted more than that. She'd hoped to get a chance to get to know him first.

"I don't know what I want to do," she'd finally said, and the conversation had dropped. Eventually they joined the rest of the party and Chelsea was grateful for that, because for one second while they were talking, Wes gotten this certain look on his face, and she'd held her breath, afraid he was about to ask her to move in with him. Chelsea liked him, but the idea of committing to him for life scared the shit out of her.

She had no idea what to do, but she couldn't do this to the guys. She'd made up her mind about that much.

The guys had gone to sleep over an hour ago. It was late, the middle of the night. The living room window was still cracked for air flow, and the street below had been quiet for a while.

Sitting up on her cot, Chelsea pulled a canvas bag containing her possessions out from beneath the cot and opened it up. Quickly and silently, she stripped her bedding off the cot and stuffed it in with the rest of her things. Where would she go? What would she do? All were questions she couldn't answer, but she couldn't stand to stay.

Moving through the apartment with the bag slung over her shoulder, she went in the bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush and other toiletries. Turning around, she walked straight into a large form in the dark.

Startled when he grabbed her, she instinctively took a swing, her right fist connecting with a very solid jaw.

Her blow inspired a low grunt, and she realized she'd just hit Marcus.

Cursing, she stumbled trying to step away from him and he had to catch her, bringing her front flush with his bare torso.

"All this just to take a piss?" he growled, roughly setting her upright.

"Sorry," she grumbled, trying to step around him, keeping her bag down by her leg so perhaps he wouldn't notice it.

Just when she thought she'd get past him, his fingers encircled her elbow, jerking her back in front of him.

"You doing some late night laundry?" he asked, half accusatory. Chelsea's nose wrinkled at the smell of alcohol coming off of him, not only on his breath but in his sweat too. How much did he have after they left? Had he even started to sober up yet?

"Yeah, I can't sleep," she said, snapping it off quickly enough to sound convincing.

He didn't say anything, but he didn't let her go. "You're running," he stated after a beat.

"I'm terrible at running. Ask Dom," she deadpanned.

"You're seriously banging out, over this?" Marcus asked, like she should be able to handle the situation.

She hissed back at him, poking him in the chest with one finger, "If it's such a little thing, why don't you sign up, huh? Tell you what. Why don't I donate an egg, and we'll see if COG medical will implant my kid in you? Let's see how people treat you after you've popped out a couple kids, Marcus!"

"You know, Dom's got enough shit falling on his head right now. You think he'll just let it go if you leave?"

What did that mean? She wasn't aware that Dom had any more shit falling on him than the rest of them. Nothing lately, anyway. Sure, she'd feel terrible if she hurt Dom in leaving, but he'd get over it. "You told me not to cause problems. I knew it might come to this, and I'd rather die out there alone than get thrown in one of those facilities!"

"And what? You think we won't help you?"

Chelsea set her jaw. "You're going to help me? Really. You're going to lay down your life for me when they come to take me away to jail? Or, when that Conception Order shows up, and it's got your name on it, you're just going to strip down like a good little soldier and get me with child?"

Marcus leaned over her, so they were almost nose-to-nose, and she could just make out the hard sneer on his face. "Don't bet that I wouldn't." Whether he meant it to or not, it sounded like a threat, even though she wasn't quite sure which action they were talking about: Dying, or the other thing...

Chelsea took a step back from him, unable to look away. She'd never seen this side of Marcus. Sure he had a temper, but that was the sergeant in him. Mostly it was just a show. This felt so much more ominous. "Whether I want it or not?" she asked, the strength dying from her voice.

"Never said that," he spat, like the very thought disgusted him. "Whatever happens is up to you, but don't forget we've all got shit to deal with. You're a COG officer, Ferria. Start fucking acting like it!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You've got two guys on the line. Either cut one loose, or cut them both loose. Quit fucking around."

Chelsea scowled. "What're you talking about? I'm dating Wes. He's the only guy who's _ever_ asked me out."

"And you've got Baird sitting on the sidelines, thinking real hard about cutting the kid's throat."

"Oh, come on. He is not!" she protested. "He doesn't want me. Why the hell would he?" she asked, exasperated. "He's not sitting around thinking about doing harm to some guy I've dated two weeks!"

"He is. If it were me, I sure as hell would be." He shouldered past her, making for the toilet.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked, watching him over one shoulder. "Turn myself in?"

"Didn't say that either," he said, lifting the seat. "And if you think I'm too polite to whip it out in front of you, you're wrong."

Growling to herself, Chelsea turned away, pulling the door shut behind her on the way out of the bathroom. She walked back over to her cot, and started making it up.

She had ten days. That meant she had at least one more day to visit her mother and tie up the loose ends. Chelsea decided she would handle a few last details, and then she'd be gone. Tomorrow night she'd leave, removing any responsibility these guys might feel for her and saving them a lot of grief in the long run.

Flopping down on her cot, she heard Marcus making his way back to bed. She heard a thump in the living room, and then low cursing, like he'd bumped his shin on something.

Tomorrow, she decided, she wouldn't get caught sneaking out. Still fuming over Marcus's words, she turned over on her side, curling up in a defensive ball.

"Just 'handle it' like an officer," she whispered to herself. "Bite me, Marcus. What the hell do you know about getting thrown to the wolves?"

Then she remembered who she was talking about, and smacked herself in the middle of the forehead, eyes closed in a wince.

Who knew better about getting tossed out into the cold than Marcus Fenix?

* * *

It was a cool day, and cloudy; winter's last swipe at the world before succumbing to warmer weather. Carlo sat huddled on a broken merry-go round on an old children's playground, using his feet to slowly turn one way, and then the other, holding onto the cold guard rails on either side of him with both hands, and never taking his eyes off the group of older boys playing ball on the basketball court.

Finally succumbing to the unseasonable temperature, Carlo crossed his arms over his chest against the chill of the wind.

A week ago he'd had a coat. Then Kio Yun, one of the older boys on the basketball court, ripped it off him and beat the crap out of him for good measure.

"Don't they have anything better to do?" Sinh asked, taking a seat next to Carlo on the merry-go-round. Sinh was Carlo's best friend. He too watched the older boys, using the filthiest curse he knew from a South Island language only a handful of people on Sera still spoke. "What's wrong with them? We found the ball. It's ours. They had no right to take it, or your coat. If I had my father's pistol..."

"You'd shoot yourself," Carlo reminded him. "The last time your dad let you shoot it, you nearly fell over."

Sinh shoved Carlo's shoulder angrily. "So what're you going to do about it? Huh? We've sat here watching them game for three days. You going to sit forever, or you goin' to do something?"

"I'm not going to shoot at them!" Carlo protested. "You think they aren't packing? I know they are." Disgusted, Carlo let his elbows rest on his knees, his chin resting in both hands.

"You scared," Sinh accused, eyes narrowed with disdain.

"Yeah, no shit," Carlo agreed, refusing to get baited into further argument.

He wanted to play ball and he wanted to get even with Kio, but he wanted to do it smart. This was the most peaceful time of Carlo's short life. He'd grown up Stranded, wandering from place to place with a tribe of South Islanders all his days and he didn't want to ruin it. They called him the round-eyed boy, with skin nearly the same shade as theirs, but without the gracefully slanted eyes or the willowy fine-boned build of their people. They accepted him, and they didn't.

Most of the fighting-aged men were gone, lost in their efforts to keep the tribe safe during the war. The elders grew ever older, and the tribe's orphan boys grew wild and strong, running in packs. COG patrols didn't make it out to these neighborhoods at night, and over the past few years the South Islander boys had started moving away from their tribes and groups of Stranded and forming gangs throughout the city, intermingling with other groups of young Stranded. They were taking over the neighborhoods, growing like a cancer. Kio was high up in one of those gangs, and if Carlo pissed him off, it would probably get him and everyone he cared for hurt. Or killed.

Gangs would start shit over anything. There was never enough food or shelter to go around, even in this place, and tempers ran hot all the time. The past four years Carlo's band of Stranded had planted in this neighborhood of this old, broken down city. When the COG started to spread out from Vectes, the city began to grow around them, and what had once been the best preserved part of the city was quickly turning into a slum. The demo companies usually didn't even want to touch these neighborhoods, but just the other day a man had walked their streets, representing one of those big companies.

The man didn't act like most of the company men who'd come into the neighborhood. He didn't try to talk them into moving, and he didn't promise anything. In fact, he didn't do any talking at all. He just walked around and watched, uncowed by the groups of boys who gave him dirty looks. Sometimes Carlo thought the man was watching him, and it scared him a little. The man seemed to see everything and he was the meanest-lookin' sonofabitch Carlo had ever seen. Everyone gave him space.

Carlo hoped to be just like him when he grew up. Maybe that's why he decided to lift the guy's wallet. Bored with watching the basketball court, Carlo had set himself up to cross paths with the man. He bumped into the guy in passing on the sidewalk, and yelled an incensed 'Hey, man! Watch where you walkin!' over his shoulder, followed by a curse or two.

The guy stood there for a long moment, head turned like a hawk's with those piercing eyes tracking Carlo as he made his way up the street, and back to where Nai Nai had her vendor cart.

Then, slowly the man turned, making his way out of the neighborhood.

Fishing the man's wallet out of his back pocket, Carlo held it in both hands. The brown leather was soft from long use, and tattered along the binding. It made a papery crackling sound when he opened it, looking inside for the first time. Usually Carlo would strip out cash and anything else useful, and then dump a wallet in the nearest trash bin so no one would find it on him. This one he'd kept, like a souvenir. He wanted to take his time going through it. Savor it. What sorts of things did a man like that keep on him?

Using his thumb, Carlo slipped the man's military ID out of the center plastic casing, where it could easily be displayed. Running a fingertip along the smooth plastic edge, he studied the ID. He could barely read it, but the man's picture told him enough. Just like every COG soldier, this man held his chin high, his gaze hard as steel. Looking at that picture, no one would ever doubt that he meant business.

"You tough, man," Carlo said, carefully placing the ID back in its plastic case. He flipped to the next item encased in plastic, and found a picture of a blonde woman with creased edges. It had been handled often, but never ripped or torn, so it must've been well cared for. The corner of Carlo's mouth twitched upward while he gazed down at the picture. The woman was beautiful. "Maybe not _so _tough."

"Hey," Sinh said, hitting Carlo's shoulder with the back of his hand. "Hey, there's that guy. The pig who was eyein' you the other day, man."

Carlo glanced around, his dark eyes quickly finding their target: A tall, white man with the build of a soldier. He wore a cloth tied over his head and scars lined the right side of his face. In this neighborhood he stood out like a sore thumb, but he walked on through the market's vendor stalls like he didn't know it or didn't care. He passed the game on the court, giving it the same mildly interested glance as everyone else.

"He a tough bastard," Sinh said, pointing. "You see him? Looks like he got mauled by a Berserker."

"I see him," Carlo said, tucking the wallet back into his pants pocket. Worse, the man saw _him._ The two locked eyes for just a second, and that was all Carlo needed to hop up onto his feet, jump off the back of the merry-go-round, and sprint off down the street.

With his oversized tennis shoes slapping the pavement, Carlo put his speed to work for him. He could outrun any guy living in a two block radius with speed and distance. He knew he could outrun this old COG soldier, but he figured it didn't hurt to put some obstacles between the two of them.

Making a quick break down the alley behind the old deli, Carlo jumped up high on the chain-link fence cutting off the back of the alley, scrambling against the clanging metal until he reached the top bar and, throwing both legs over the top, he dropped down on the other side in a crouch.

"You're quick, I'll give you that," a deep voice said.

Already breathing hard after his sprint, Carlo gasped, gaping at the large form filling the other end of the alley.

Turning around, he tried to scale the fence once again, but he only managed to get half way up before the man's large hands clamped on his legs, pulling him away from the fence and putting him on his feet on the ground, never releasing Carlo's forearm.

Struggling against the man's iron grip, Carlo cursed in every language he knew, kicking and screaming, hitting the man to no avail, kicking at the side of his knees. He would've done more damage with his fists to a stone statue.

The man let him struggle until he tired and quieted down, panting and looking frantically around for a way out.

"You done?" the man asked, raising one eyebrow.

Placing his free hand on one knee, Carlo leaned over, still panting. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, man."

"Give it back," the man ordered, extending a hand in a 'give it over' gesture.

Pulling out the wallet, Carlo slapped it into the man's hand.

Flipping it open, the man flipped through the contents with his thumb, the pictures especially, and seemed satisfied with what he found. He didn't even check for the cash. Shoving it into his own pocket, he nodded toward the street.

"You got people? Someone who takes care of you?" he asked.

Carlo nodded, a little surprised. Why wasn't he getting dragged to the nearest checkpoint and turned over to the COG MPs? "Nai Nai—grandmother. Don't belong to her, but she feeds me."

The man released Carlo's arm. Rubbing at the huge hand print left behind on his flesh, Carlo thought hard about bolting. Then he looked the man up and down and decided he didn't want to see that powerful body running him down. It probably wouldn't end well for him.

"Lead on," the man said. He still hadn't raised his voice. Not even a little.

Carlo eyed him and decided he probably didn't need to.

* * *

"I found him playing with spent brass from a machine gun," Nai Nai told the stranger.

The man had followed Carlo home, up into the sectioned warehouse where he shared a room hardly bigger than a bolt hole with a very old South Islander woman with pure white hair and a bad cough. Nai Nai had smoked most of her life. She used to do it outside, but since she'd become bed ridden, leaving her daughters to run the vending cart in the market, she'd gotten into the habit of smoking in their room. Nai Nai always made Carlo leave before she would light her pipe.

The man introduced himself to Nai Nai as simply Marcus, and he said nothing about Carlo lifting his wallet. He only asked how she'd come to have the boy in her custody, since they were obviously not blood relatives.

"He was sitting in the middle of a mud road, up to his waist in a water-filled track left by a Centaur, wearing a soiled diaper and playing with the brass. He lined them up like little soldiers, and then he'd knock them all over," Nai Nai said. "We found his mother that day too. She wasn't well. Fine on the outside, but inside," Nai Nai tapped her temple with the mouthpiece of her unlit pipe. "Not good on the inside. Her name was-"

"Maria Santiago," Marcus supplied grimly, once again glancing over at Carlo. He kept doing that; his gaze worrying over the boy's features like a puzzle he'd unraveled already, but couldn't quite believe he'd solved.

Nai Nai let her pipe drop into her lap, stunned as Carlo had ever seen her. "How did you know?" Then realization came into her dark eyes. "Are you the father?" she asked, pointing to the boy with her pipe.

"No," Marcus said, turning his eyes back to the old woman. "But I've known his father since we were kids. We've got a place up town with a couple other former Gears. His name's Dominic Santiago."

"Oh," Nai Nai said, drawing out the syllable in understanding. "Yes. She spoke of him often. She loved him very much. From her ramblings, we could never discern whether he lived. Many days, she believed he'd died. One night she left us without warning, and she left the boy behind with nothing but the clothes on his back and the name she gave him."

Marcus shook his head, and at that moment he looked very sad. "Dom never stopped searching for her. It still eats at him, that he didn't find her in time. It's going to kill him to find out she was pregnant when she left."

Carlo felt his heart sink so far down he wondered if it would ever come back up again. Suddenly all his limbs felt too heavy to lift, like they each weighed a hundred pounds. All this time he'd hoped his mother would come back for him. She disappeared when he was six, but he still remembered her. Even at such a young age he'd known something wasn't quite right about her, but he'd loved her all the same.

Bringing a dirty handkerchief to cover her mouth, Nai Nai coughed and coughed. Carlo listened, ever concerned. He knew without looking there would be blood on the handkerchief before Nai Nai stopped coughing. She hadn't managed the strength to rise and care for herself for months. Nai Nai always took care of everyone. He knew she was very sick.

Still wheezing, and struggling to clear her throat, Nai Nai nodded to the boy. "You should take him then. Take him to his father."

Startled, Carlo's head shot up. "No!" he said, rushing over and falling to his knees beside Nai Nai's chair. He took her hand in both of his, squeezing tight. "Don't send me away. I be good. I promise."

"Good?" Nai Nai let out a scratchy, sardonic laugh. It sounded downright mean to his ears, like a bad joke direct at him. "A good boy won't make it here. You go to your father. He was a Gear. Gears have money, food, clothes, education."

"I won't go! I'll run away if you make me!" Carlo insisted. He hadn't cried in years, but a fog worked up in his eyes. It got hard to see and his throat constricted.

Nai Nai clenched his hands tight, drawing him closer. "I don't have long in this world, boy. When I'm gone, who would care for you? You won't make it without the gangs, and the gangs will be the end of you," she whispered harshly, and with such foreboding it froze the breath in Carlo's lungs. Her eyes went wide. "You go!" she ordered, squeezing his hands so hard it hurt.

So he did.

* * *

"You'll get to go visit her," Marcus said while they climbed the unending staircases in an up-town apartment building. Carlo had been silent the entire walk across the city. Marcus didn't seem like much of a talker either, but in spite of the quiet Carlo found the man a steady presence. His even keel never dipped, and Carlo took comfort in that. "Probably whenever you want. Dom'll insist on it. He'll want to thank her, too."

"She won't like that," Carlo said morosely. "Nai Nai hates being thanked."

They climbed in silence for a while longer, before Carlo broached the silence. "How did you know?" he asked. He'd tried to puzzle out the answer for hours. "How did you know about me?"

Marcus shrugged. "I didn't. Not until you bumped into me on Friday. For a second, I thought I was looking at a ghost. If you hadn't taken this," he said, pulling out his wallet and showing it to Carlo, "I would've wondered if I'd lost my damn mind. And by the way, you need to knock that shit off. Either that or get better at it. If I hadn't been so stunned seeing you, I would've caught on a hell of a lot quicker."

So that's why Marcus didn't get mad about the theft. Not even the most realistic hallucinations had sticky fingers. Thinking on it some more, Carlo's brow furrowed with confusion. "But, you said my father's alive?"

"Not Dom. Carlos," he said, and the softness of his voice conveyed the sacredness of the subject, of the person who carried that name.

"That's my name," Carlo admitted. "Carlos Santiago. When I was little, Mama said she named me after a great man. A hero."

Sharp eyes pointed forward, Marcus swallowed hard, blinking a lot even though his eyes were dry. He nodded somberly. "She did," he said, and then he said no more.

The two of them climbed together to the top of the stairs, and then walked side-by-side down the hall. Carlo felt so small next to Marcus, carrying his few possessions in a canvas bag over his shoulder. When they stopped in front of a door, Marcus paused.

"You ready?" he asked, like Carlo had some say in the matter.

Squaring his shoulders, and lifting his chin a little, Carlo stepped up to the door. He was ready, come what may.

Marcus turned his key in the lock, and then opened the door.


	24. Chapter 24

Chelsea led the way into her mother's room with Dom trailing just behind her, craning his head to see the inside of the room around her slim form.

He should've known better, but after hearing Chelsea's mom had some form of Alzheimer's, he expected to see a little old lady with gray hair. On the contrary, Chelsea's mother was Bernie's age. Mid-to-late fifties, probably shooting just under sixty—although she didn't look it. Even after so long in VA living, she was still physically fit. Only a very few stray strands of silver streaked through her shoulder-length black hair. She sat upright in a chair at a small card table serving as a desk, back straight as a board. The parts of a simple communication device were spread out before her on the small desk, and she worked on it with a pair of curved tweezers and a hot soldering iron. When she glanced up at them, she treated them to the same pleasant, easy smile the woman's daughter often wore.

"Hey, mom," Chelsea said in greeting. She leaned down to give her mother a one-armed hug. "What'ch ya doin?"

"Trying to fix this old comm unit," Mrs. Ferria said, indicating the mess spread out before her. "The new nurse, Celia, finds little projects for me. I thought Tate might like it if I can get it working. He goes trouncing around out there with his Commando buddies, and never remembers to call home."

Chelsea bit her lower lip, making a real effort to school herself into not reacting. "Mom, this is my friend, Dom," she said, perhaps introducing him as a diversion for herself. "I work with him at Bender Fields."

Dom stepped forward and extended his hand. "I've heard a lot about you, Captain Ferria," he said, giving the woman a gentle smile.

"Call me Darlene," Chelsea's mother informed him pleasantly, taking his large hand in her small one and giving it a firm shake. Just by her grip and the way she sat ram-rod straight in her chair, he could tell this woman had always exuded toughness and confidence. She was the very picture of an officer. Chelsea's impressive strength came from this woman, but the iron consistency of the mother had softened in her daughter. Darlene Ferria looked up at him, and Dom saw her eyes were a crystalline blue, several shades darker than Chelsea's, and they clearly displayed a boundless depth of intelligence.

Dom didn't let himself glance at Chelsea, because he knew if he did his face would be etched with pity. She'd tried to explain to him, how seeing her mother ripped at her heart. Comparing it to his own experiences with Maria's grief-inspired insanity, he'd thought he understood. He just didn't know how hard it would hit him to see Chelsea's mother in person. Obviously she loved her children, obviously she was an amazing, intelligent woman. Perhaps she'd lived an understated life, ruled more by family than career, but if she'd chosen ambition over family, Dom could tell in just this brief meeting that Captain Darlene Ferria would've been a behemoth. Perhaps not on par with Adam Fenix or Helena Stroud, but still great.

Chelsea grew up in the shadow of this woman, and after her father and brothers died, she had to sit helplessly and watch her mother slowly lose her greatest strength: her mind.

"You look like a soldier, Dom," Darlene determined, crossing her arms over her chest and examining him. "By your build, I'd guess a regular infantry Gear, but that knife is commando issue," she said, indicating the blade attached to his belt.

Dom nodded. The woman was sharp. "I enlisted at sixteen. My original MOS was infantry, but I entered commando training after boot camp. I was skinnier back then," he admitted. Most commandos were tall, wiry guys built to travel light and fast over the toughest terrain. They didn't wear as much armor as the modern Gear, and didn't need so much body mass to support the extra weight.

Mrs. Ferria shook her head. "Sixteen," she said wearily. "That's too young to go to war. They took each of my boys at that age. You were just a baby."

"I actually had a baby of my own before I enlisted. I needed money to support my wife and son."

In the background of their conversation, Chelsea busied herself with gathering up her mother's hamper of clothes, tracking down a carelessly placed towel and a couple socks that had escaped the confines of the hamper. It was almost like the girl couldn't stand to stay still in her mother's presence. She had to stay busy, keep moving at all times.

"Hey, mom. I'm going to take these down and start them in a washing machine, all right?" Chelsea said.

"That's fine, Chelsea. Thank you."

With the clothes basket under one arm, Chelsea leaned down to kiss her mother's temple. "Be nice to Dom, okay? Remember, he's not one of your boys, and he doesn't serve under you."

"Of course," he mother reassured her.

Chelsea shot him a little smile, and then hurried out of the room.

With her daughter gone, Mrs. Ferria let out a tired sigh, setting aside the tweezers and placing the soldering iron back in its holder for the moment. "You know," she said, nodding after Chelsea. "That one gave me more fits than any of them. Compared to her brothers, she was about middle of the pack in everything. Not the most difficult, not the smartest, not the bravest, not the most foolhardy, not even the most dramatic. And yet, I spent the most time worrying about her."

Dom understood that feeling all too well. "I think that's true of most little girls," he told her. "Sure, I worried about my little boy, but when he fell down I'd pick him up and dust him off. When my baby girl fell down..." Dom shook his head. "Even as a baby, she knew her daddy would move mountains to get to her side."

Mrs. Ferria held her hands just over the jumble of electronics in front of her, and Dom could see a clear tremor in them. She clasped them together, as if to hide it, grimacing. "I'm declining quickly," she said. "Today I know it. Tomorrow, I probably won't."

She sounded impossibly logical while informing him of her deepest shame. Dom wondered if he'd manage such grace under the same circumstances.

"I'm doing my best to hang on for my daughter. The nurses often remind me where I am and which of my family members are deceased, but it is an enormous effort to maintain any degree of clarity. I can tell when I make mistakes by the look on her face," she said, her blue eyes sad, brow furrowed. "For just a second she's stunned, like I've slapped her. The losses she must bear every single moment of every day float in and out of my reality. It must be so hard for her, carrying that weight alone."

Dom started to deny it, but Mrs. Ferria stopped him with a brief wave of the hand.

"No, I can see what my illness is doing to her. Don't begrudge me that while I have it. It's horrible for her, and you know it. She can hardly stand to stay in the room with me."

Dom sighed, letting one hand slide around to the back of his neck. "It's hard, but she doesn't give up. You're her family. She feels lucky to still have you at all."

That drew a hurt laugh from Chelsea's mother. "Is she?" she asked softly. "Sometimes I wonder."

"Yes," Dom said, with real conviction. "Believe me, it's better."

Mrs. Ferria studied him with those dark blue eyes, and that look alone felt like it sliced off a few of his outer layers so she could see inside him. Marcus had a look just like that in his arsenal. "Did you lose someone to madness, Dom?"

She was just as perceptive as Chelsea, but more direct. Where Chelsea would take aim with a small caliber rifle, her mother would step up and fire both barrels, the consequences be damned.

A muscle in his cheek twitched. "My wife, after our children died," Dom said.

Mrs. Ferria's brow furrowed, and the sadness returned to her eyes. "I'm sorry."

Dom shrugged one shoulder. "It was a long time ago."

"But the hurt doesn't go away," she said, with inescapable finality.

Dom let his eyes fall shut. She was right—he would never find peace. "No," he conceded, his chest constricting as his mind brought forth memories of Maria, the kids, Carlos. It hardly seemed possible it had been so long since he'd seen any of them. Each hung like a weight around his neck, with Maria's final moments cinching the noose so tight he could hardly breathe. "It never goes away," he agreed, trying valiantly to shove down all those ghosts and get the haunted look out of his eyes.

He'd gotten a lot of practice acting normal. Right after Carlos died, Dom started to catch Marcus watching him when he'd drift off, thinking about his older brother. He quickly learned to guard his emotions, because he knew if he waded knee-deep into despair, Marcus would blame himself even more for Carlos.

Marcus always blamed himself for everything.

"Will you take care of her?" Mrs. Ferria asked, sorting the components in front of her into a line and fighting so hard to be strong in front of him. "I taught Chelsea to never expect anyone to help her. She's independent and stronger than she realizes, but she keeps people at a distance, especially when she's hurting. I'm afraid I never had the time or patience to reinforce her sense of self-worth." The dark-haired woman swallowed hard, pursing her lips. "Dom, I would be forever in your debt if you could show my daughter what it's like to have someone in her life willing to move mountains for her. I never could, and now I never will."

No one had ever formally asked him to make this promise. A few times in his life it came without asking. With Marcus, and later with Cole and Baird to a lesser degree. "I'll do my best," he promised, reaching out to take Mrs. Ferria's hands in one of his. "If I can help it, she'll always be safe." And now he'd never forgive himself if something did happen to her. Not after he'd promised her mother he'd look after her.

The Captain nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. She patted the hand he'd laid over hers. "Thank you," she said, her voice miraculously steady. Like her daughter, Mrs. Ferria perched on the brink of incredible heartache and refused to fall over the edge.

* * *

Cole slapped his cards down on the table, mildly put out. "You play a hard game, little man," he informed Carlo.

Unrepentant, Carlo placed a small hand on the very large pile of money in the middle of the table and pulled the whole thing toward him, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and a big smile on his face.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Carlo said, dark eyes glittering. He sighed happily, facing the bills and stacking the coins in neat piles. He'd all but cleaned out Marcus and Cole over the past hour. "Think I'm gonna to like it here."

"You do know that's going in your college fund, right?" Marcus asked, raising one dark eyebrow. The large man was seated on a crate across from Cole, absently rubbing at the left side of his jaw with his thumb, touching it gingerly like it hurt him while Cole shuffled the deck. Carlo was lording over the two of them, hogging the couch like a throne and surrounded by the contents of the fridge.

Carlo snerked. "College? Can't even read Common, man. Me's an island boy," he said, letting the accent of the tribe that raised him roll off his tongue thicker than usual. "Deal those cards, brotha," he said to Cole.

Cole eyed him, and his shuffling didn't pick up at all from its slow, thorough pace. "It'll take as long as it takes," he informed Carlo.

Sighing, Carlo put both hands behind his head and leaning back against the couch cushions. He could still hardly believe he'd landed here, in this place. If only he knew for sure how much it would cost him.

Picking at his new over-sized COG PT sweatshirt (Marcus had stolen it from Dom's room and bequeathed it to Carlo on his friend's behalf), the boy relented to wait for Cole to deal, burying his nose in the worn but clean grey material of the pull-over, taking in the scent of it.

Cole glanced sideways at him, the same way he'd glanced at Carlo every other time he'd engaged in this strange behavior. "Didn't know COG-issued detergent smelled so good."

"It smells like Dom," Marcus filled in for Cole.

Pulling the sweatshirt down off his face, Carlo popped a piece of jerky in his mouth. He'd raided the fridge and cupboard immediately after Marcus and Cole forced him to shower and throw away his old clothes, replacing them with a set of cargos borrowed from their smallest roommate—who was either a girl, or the smallest Gear Carlo had ever seen—and one of his father's sweatshirts. They'd allowed him to keep his shoes for the time being, but insisted they would be replaced first thing the following day.

Honestly, Carlo didn't care much. It was nice to be clean and engulfed in warm clothing. The sweatshirt smelled like laundry detergent and carbolic soap, but the scent beneath those tugged hard at Carlo's memory. It was musky, and too male to fit perfectly with what he remembered, but still too familiar to ignore.

"Cinnamon," Marcus said.

"Huh?" Carlo asked.

"Your dad's house—his parents' place, and later the house he shared with your mother. It always smelled like cinnamon. Your grandmother liked to bake and the smell just kind of stuck to all of them."

"What's cinnamon?" Carlo asked, honestly dumbfounded. He'd never heard of it before, but he had heard of baking, and thinking about food made him hungry, even though by all accounts he should've been stuffed.

After his shower, Carlo had literally surrounded himself with food. He kept taking things out of the fridge and eating them, and neither of the guys had said anything about it, except when he nonchalantly attempted to help himself to a beer. Cole had snatched it from him in passing, grabbing another out of the fridge for Marcus before the three of them sat down to play cards.

It was the first time in his life Carlo had been offered free access to food.

Chewing thoughtfully on a piece of jerky, Carlo stewed for a moment. "Sooo, what's he like?" he finally asked. His dark eyes flickered around nervously. On this subject he lost the lion's share of his confident façade, but Marcus and Cole seemed like good guys—for Gears. He felt they'd be straight with him.

"Hope you like doing dishes," Cole scoffed, earning a glare from Marcus. Unruffled by the icy stare, Cole shrugged, flipping a card off the top of the stack to each of them. "He asked, baby."

Picking up his cards after they were all down, Marcus shifted them around in his hand, "You didn't have to lead with that."

"Was the first thing that came to mind, ya know?"

Marcus grunted in a noncommittal fashion, studying his cards and then collecting a couple coins to toss into the pot for an ante. "Dom's not perfect, but he'll love you unconditionally, kid. And if the opportunity ever arises, he'll prove it by ventilating anyone who tries to hurt you."

"For real?" Carlo asked, with just a bit of awe. He'd never had anyone so much as stand up for him in a fight. Sinh was the only person who'd ever taken a whipping beside him, and it hadn't been by choice.

"Two-bullets-between-the-eyes for real," Cole confirmed, tossing in his own ante, and then a raise. "Your daddy's one scary dude when it comes down to it, but he's a teddy bear to the people he likes. Now give me a chance to win his money back. The Cole Train's got you this time, little man."

"We'll see, brah," Carlo said, quirking one eyebrow while sorting his cards.

At that moment, someone keyed the lock, and a moment later a man and a woman strolled through the door.

"Thanks for coming with me," the young blond woman said sorrowfully, her eyes downcast with sadness.

The man was older than the woman, darker in appearance than Marcus but much lighter than Cole. He laid a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder. "Hey, any time, all right? I'll go with you whenever you want to visit your mom."

The young woman nodded, heaving a tired sigh.

Carlo had never seen his father before, but based on his mother's description he knew this man must be him. This was Dominic Santiago, and he was impressive. For a moment, Carlo wondered how this man could possibly be his father. He was built like a horse, and Carlo felt so scrawny by comparison.

The room was very still, and the two newcomers noticed him for the first time. Puzzled, they looked around at Marcus and Cole, who just stared back at them. Then Dom's focus came onto Carlo, who sat with his knees tucked under him, looking at his father over the back of the couch.

Glancing over his shoulder for direction, Carlo took heart when Marcus gave him an encouraging jerk of the head in Dom's direction.

Vaulting over the back of the couch, Carlo moved cautiously toward his father, his feet carrying him forward even though it felt like he'd left his brain far behind. It felt like watching someone else walk toward the large, burly man standing just inside the doorway; the same man whose brow furrowed as he gave Carlo a mildly confused look, like he too recognized the boy from some distant memory, but couldn't quite place him.

Heart hammering in his chest, and his breath coming quicker, Carlo stopped just in front of Dom, unable to raise his eyes above the man's barrel chest. Slowly, he reached out, gently taking hold of Dom's right arm just above the elbow and turning him so Carlo could see the tattoo adorning the man's massive bicep. It was a memorial to Maria—an angel looking up toward heaven.

Dom didn't flinch back when Carlo traced his mother's name feather-light with his fingertips. For the second time that day, tears welled up in Carlo's eyes, and this time he felt his throat constricting, choking him.

Feeling a presence at his back, Carlo whipped his head around, but it was only Marcus standing a pace behind, facing his friend.

"Dom, this is your son," Marcus said, finding his voice when Carlo couldn't.

Dom seemed to try to say something, but faltered, brain working furiously behind his dark eyes. "Maria?" he finally asked, unable to finish the question.

Was she pregnant when she left?

Marcus nodded, and Dom's face twisted into a stricken expression. "How did you find him?" he asked, gazing at Carlo with something akin to horrified wonder.

"You could say he ran into me," Marcus said pointedly.

Dom didn't seem able to tear his gaze away from Carlo's face. "What's your name?" he finally managed, the words soft, comforting. The way Dom looked at him, it felt like everyone else in the world dropped away, leaving the two of them standing there alone.

"Carlos Santiago, but Mama called me Carlo." Carlo shrugged. He didn't really know who Carlos had been, other than a hero. His mother hadn't liked to talk about his namesake.

Dom nodded slowly, still unbelieving. "You look like Carlos," he said, and he sounded disconcerted by the fact. "He was your uncle. He died when I was three, four...five years older than you are?" Dom shook his head. "Holy hell, how old are you?"

Carlo shrugged. "Not exactly sure anymore."

Perturbed, with one hand on his hip and scratching absently at his forehead with the other, Dom finally motioned to Marcus. "Help me out, man. How old is he?"

"Depends," Marcus grunted, and Carlo could guess _exactly_ what it depended upon.

"Marcus," Dom threw a sharp warning into that one word. "I was with you all the time back then. It had to be when I was on leave. I can't fucking add right now, and I just want to know, how old is he?"

"He's thirteen," Marcus said. He hadn't even needed a moment to calculate.

"Seriously?" Carlo asked, looking down at himself. "Then why am I so small?"

Marcus shrugged. "Underfed. Every Santiago I've ever known could _eat_—if given the opportunity."

"True that," Cole chuckled, smacking Carlo on the shoulder with one hand in passing. "Don't worry, baby. We'll get you eating good in no time. Lucky for you we got Shrink Lady livin' here now. Girl can cook—better than the rest of us, anyway."

That's when Carlo really noticed the young woman standing just behind his father. She was pretty, and much younger than the rest of them. Warily, Carlo eyed her, trying to figure out which of the men present she might be with. Unlike most of the Stranded women he knew, she didn't glom onto a guy constantly. In fact, her interest in the guys seemed minimal. She looked sad and preoccupied. She had dark shadows under her eyes and actually looked more miserable and overwhelmed than Carlo felt.

When he looked at Dom again, Carlo found that his father's gaze hadn't strayed from him. "Come on," Dom said, nodding toward the back hallway of the apartment. "I'll strip down my bed, wash the sheets. You can have my room tonight and we'll figure something out tomorrow. Cole's leaving to play Thrashball in a couple months, so you and Chelsea can fight over his room then."

Carlo glanced at Chelsea, but she didn't seem to have heard what Dom said. Wrapping her arms around herself, she scuffed at the floor with one black boot and let out a tired sigh, her mind clearly somewhere else. If she was in the running for Cole's room, that meant she wasn't sharing a bed with anyone in particular. So why was she here? Was she a relative of Marcus's? She sure as hell wasn't related to Cole or Dom, and Carlo sincerely hoped his father didn't mess around with her. If he did, Carlo had a feeling he wouldn't like the woman very much.

"Come on," Dom repeated, hesitantly placing a hand on Carlo's shoulder and giving it a heart-felt squeeze before heading back toward his bedroom, Carlo trailing after him.

* * *

It was so hard to act normal, knowing this would be the last day she'd spend with them. Dom was positively jubilant at gaining a son, and yet she could sense a darkness behind his joy, a shadow of self-blame for all the times Carlo had suffered—all the times he'd needed his father and Dom hadn't been there.

Chelsea never wanted to know what that felt like, to know a child of hers was out there in the world, trying to survive without her. Or worse, not know and then find out later. If she got taken to the farms, it would be exactly like that. Her children would be raised in an institution, groomed to be soldiers, doctors, engineers, whatever the COG needed.

After birth, she'd never see them again.

If a boy like Carlo could survive outside COG jurisdiction, why couldn't she? It might be hard, but she'd live life on her own terms—mostly.

So why not just say good-bye to the guys? They had no right to stop her from leaving. She didn't belong to any of them. She didn't belong to anyone.

"I'm going back to Vectes," she said to Wes shortly after they sat down at a table in a local bar. It was early afternoon, and she'd invited him out to grab a late lunch. This was a loose end she couldn't bring herself to leave hanging, even if she had to lie to him. She didn't know where she would go, but it certainly wouldn't be Vectes. The COG didn't want her, and they refused to let her live in peace as a civilian.

Wes sat back hard in his chair, obviously shocked by her words. "What?" he asked. "But, what about..."

"They might give me a choice," she said, hoping he wouldn't double check this story with any of her roommates. "They need more medics these days, so if I can get a company to pick me up and let me serve a tour, they'll drop the Conception Order bullshit."

"How long?" Wes asked.

Chelsea shrugged. "Until they kick me out again." Better she keep the lie as simple and flexible as possible.

Wes reached across the table, his dark eyes intent on her, finding her hand with his and squeezing it. "You don't have to do this," he said, and he probably thought he sounded reassuring. "You can stay with me. I really like you, Chelsea. I'll be whatever you need me to be."

Internally, Chelsea recoiled. "I'm not ready for that." That was the truth, at least. Even with a partner she wanted to be with, children weren't part of her immediate agenda. "I wish I was. Look at the life I could have. I've got a good job, great friends," she emphasized that by squeezing his hand in return, to say she included him amongst those friends. "I'm going to have to give it all up."

That hit her hard. A fresh wave of cold fear flared in her chest and her scalp prickled unpleasantly as icy tendrils spread through her ribcage. She really would give up everything—and she'd never get it back. She'd never be able to look the guys in the face again after taking off.

A sudden crash came from across the room, and when Chelsea and Wes turned toward it, they witnessed two women rolling on the floor by the bar. One of the women was much bigger than the other with leathered sun-browned skin and thin dark hair. She was hefty, red faced and much older than the young woman cowering beneath her on the floor.

"You think you can take my man, bitch!" the large woman screamed, slapping the shit out of the scrawny woman.

Both women had an air of Stranded about them. Their clothes were tattered, and they both had the look of people with pale complexions weathered dark and tough by extended exposure to the elements.

"Hey!" Chelsea shouted, attempting to startle them to attention. The Lieutenant in her insisted on restoring order, but these women weren't COG issue. They came from out in the wild, where no hairy-assed sergeants or half-cocked Lieutenants wandered around demanding to be heeded. These women hadn't ever been given latrine duty or thrown in a brig. She might as well shout at a brick wall.

The younger woman on the ground had curled up in the fetal position, trying to protect her head from the onslaught. Fortunately the big woman on top didn't seem to know how to hit with a closed fist. She just slapped open-handed, pulling hair when she could and gradually losing steam. She huffed each breath, flagging quickly.

As much as she despised cheaters, Chelsea couldn't let this go on. Everyone just stood around, watching. She tried to step forward, but Wes's hand closed on her forearm and held her back.

"Leave them," he said sharply.

Chelsea jerked against his grip, but he didn't let go. "What're you doing?" she demanded.

The look on Wes's face was one of disgust as he looked at the women fighting on the floor. "They deserve what they get," he said.

"Let me go!" Chelsea ordered. "That girl's going to get killed."

"I don't care!" Wes snarled, vicious. It was the first time Chelsea had ever seen him let down his genial façade. "They deserve it."

Stunned, Chelsea could only blink at him. "They never did anything to you."

Wes's mouth set in a fierce scowl. "Locusts didn't slaughter my family. Stranded did," he hissed, dark eyes narrowed.

That explained why he'd gone after the Stranded in the woods. Wes didn't kill him to protect his team—he did it out of a nearly-suicidal drive for revenge.

Chelsea turned her eyes back to the fight just in time to see the younger woman getting the crap kicked out of her snake out one battered arm in the midst of the pounding raining down on her. Shakily, she snagged the neck of a discarded glass beer bottle rolling between the legs of a barstool and slammed it into the temple of her attacker.

The bottle broke, spraying glass pieces everywhere and absolutely devastating the large woman. The big woman reeled, her face and neck sliced open, eyes rolling back into her head. She fell sideways, landing with a sickening thump next to her former victim.

The smaller woman scrambled to her feet, squeezing through the crowd and out the door, disappearing down the street.

"Come on," Wes said, turning to go and dragging Chelsea along behind him.

She couldn't leave. That woman on the floor might die if she did. Everyone else in the bar just stood in a circle around her, watching.

Slipping Wes's grip, Chelsea turned, intent on performing her duty as a medic. She didn't expect him to grab her again, but he did, jerking her around.

"I said leave her!" His eyes were wild with fury, and her continued resistance seemed to throw fuel onto his fiery madness.

Chelsea forcefully shoved him off her. "I helped you, and now I'm going to help her."

Wes grabbed her right forearm for the third time, and then he made perhaps the biggest mistake of his life. He hauled back and slapped her across the face, putting his full weight into the blow.

Letting her head turn and absorb the hit, Chelsea didn't even think: firming her mouth in preparation for getting struck again, she reached across her body with her free left hand and cleared her holster.

Whatever Wes had in mind when he hit her, he obviously didn't expect her to dish it right back at him. Even when wielded left-handed, the heavy steel pistol left a hell of a mark. Chelsea stabbed Wes in the eye with the muzzle, the impact reverberating with a solid crack. She knew she'd shattered some of the fine bones around his eye socket. When he let go of her arm to grab his face, she stepped back out of his reach, supporting her left-handed grip, holding the sights level with his chest.

It took a great deal of effort to stay her finger from squeezing that trigger, and she'd never know for sure if she paused to spare Wes's life or to spare the innocent bystanders standing behind him. Even in a left-handed stance, she had no doubt she'd hit him at this range.

The bar went very still. Holding his eye with both hands, Wes groaned piteously, falling to his knees.

"Don't you ever fucking touch me!" Chelsea shouted, trying to cover her terror at being assaulted _again _when she should've been safe.

Wes gave her a look out of his good eye, and that look was murderous. For a moment, she thought he might surge toward her. He had one hand low by his side and held in such a way that she couldn't tell if he held a blade or not.

The muscle across the hinge of Chelsea's jaw flexed when she swallowed hard, but she forced herself to relax, to anticipate in case he decided to strike. In the back of her mind, she tried to prepare herself for the possibility of getting cut or stabbed, just like the Jacinto self-defense instructors had taught her. If Wes had a knife she'd try to maintain distance and drop him first, but in close quarters that plan could easily go to shit.

"Don't," she warned just when retaliation seemed imminent, and the warning seemed to break his resolve.

Wes ran out of the bar, slinking away like a wounded predator.


	25. Chapter 25

_AN: Sorry it took so long. Right now I'm attempting to establish credit, find a car, find a house, secure financing for said ventures, and I'm getting ready to transfer to another new job, this one more permanent. Please be patient with me. I promise the chapters will keep coming as long as they are wanted. Please let me know that they are wanted! Reviews really are what keeps the creative juices flowing;-) _

* * *

Huffing impatiently, Baird rolled down his window and let one elbow rest on the sill. With the early-afternoon sun beating down on the windows, the cab of the truck was getting warm quickly and he'd been waiting for at least ten minutes, parked in front of the barracks on Fort Collier.

Damon touched his earpiece. "Mataki," he said after the small device beeped, prompting it to form a line to the intended recipient.

It took a minute, but she finally came on the comm.

"Hold your damn horses, Blondie," she instructed, ever the nurturing mother-figure in his life.

"I'm not taking you on a date. What's taking so long?" he demanded. In the background he could hear people talking and passing by, like in a corridor.

"You're not?" she asked, mimicking a disappointed, senile old woman. "Well, silly me. Granny got all prettied up thinking her smart boy might take her out for a night on the town." Then she dropped the sarcasm, turning to her hard sergeant's voice. "I'll be out in a minute. Think you can keep it in your pants until then?" Not waiting for an answer, she cut the line.

Baird scowled, chagrined that he didn't get a chance to take a parting shot at her. "She's worse than the mother I was born with," he grumbled, which was an utter lie. Compared to his real mother, Bernie was a picture of saintly maternal grace. Hell, compared to his real mother, Bernie could make a legitimate claim of sanity, and that was _saying_ something.

Damon tried to imagine what he would've been like if he'd been raised on Mataki's knee instead of in the pit of despair he actually grew up in, and concluded he probably would've ended up about the same—cynical, foul-mouthed and taking on fights he shouldn't. But maybe more socially functional, less damaged.

On the other hand, if he had been Bernie's son, he probably would've grown up with that obnoxiously prim accent. Probably would've annoyed himself to death by now.

A knock on the passenger window startled him, but he didn't jump. Over the years the war had kicked the jumpiness right out of him. Jumpy people missed critical shots at lethal moments.

Bernie opened the passenger door and climbed into the truck dressed in PT sweats and with a ruck over her shoulder. "How's life, Blondie?" she asked.

She was ready to hit the gym, but Baird had a few questions for her first. He'd thought about going to Dom because some of his more specialized Commando training might be of use, but after thinking about it some more Damon figured that could get unexpectedly complicated. There would be questions he'd have a hard time answering, like: '_Why are you so interested in Chelsea's boyfriend?'_

Then, he realized Bernie had trained Dom, and in spite of some of her more annoying qualities, such as nagging him _incessantly_, she might prove more reasonable in the long run because she had no vested interest in Chelsea. So, in conclusion, he'd decided to skip the hassle and cut out the middleman, going straight to the source.

Pulling out the file he'd put together over the past couple weeks, Baird handed it to Mataki. "I need a favor," he said, unable to remember the last time those words had passed his lips. During the war he'd taken his own expertise over anyone else's, and if he needed something, like parts, asking for it was worthless. Favors weren't handed out, they came from bargaining and bribes. Whenever he found himself truly up a creek, it usually proved more effective to take what he needed than throw himself down on someone's mercy.

Bernie flipped open the file, casually taking in the gruesome pictures. "You finally lose it and kill somebody?" she asked, studying the contents in spite of the flippant remark.

"Who does knife-work like that?" Baird asked.

"Lefties. Like you," Bernie commented, picking up one especially close-up shot and squinting at it. "Although I hope it wasn't you. I'd like to think your Granny took the time to teach you how to stab someone to death properly. Whoever did this was an amateur." She raised an eyebrow at the next picture. "A very _angry_ amateur."

"Someone who came in late in the war and didn't get full training at boot?" Baird conjectured.

Tilting her head sideways, Bernie nodded. "That could be. I would guess Stranded. They're more likely to hold a knife blade-up in the hand. We'd teach the Commandos to hold it blade-down and do more slashing than stabbing." She paused, flipping through the pictures. She tapped one of them with her index finger. "Each of these stab wounds has a slightly different angle, but they're clustered so close together I have to think they were done in quick succession. That means the blade slipped in his hand, probably after it got bloody, and I would bet he sliced open his thumb, fingers or palm."

Bingo. There was some good news. "Would he still have the scar?" Baird asked.

Mataki perked up when he asked that. "Yes, he would. The wounds on the body are deep for a standard issue blade, which meant he was really putting his back into hacking away. If he cut himself, it would've been bad. Why? You think you know him?" From the way she said it, he knew she wouldn't offer any more help until he answered.

Baird hesitated, mulling it back and forth for a while before finally deciding to entrust her with the whole story. He didn't leave anything out. Nothing major, anyway.

When he finished, Bernie closed the file and handed it back to him. "If this 'Wes' is the same guy who killed these men, then he's dangerous," she said somberly. "Impulsive, angry." Her mouth tightened, and Baird could guess what she was thinking. Bernie had a few skeletons in her own closet, and when she'd killed them it had been cold, calculated revenge. Granted, it had been well-earned revenge. She was probably trying to decide which was worse.

"If it was done by a cooler hand, I might think these guys did something to deserve it," Baird said. Was he actually trying to assuage her guilt? "I can't help thinking they looked at him wrong and he snapped. When Kendall killed that Stranded out in the woods, there were way more stab wounds than it would've taken to kill a man twice his size. That shit was _personal_."

Mataki had a distant look in her eyes, holding her chin with a thoughtfully. "Do you like this girl?" Bernie's eyes pinned him. "Other than the idea of getting into her pants?"

Of course she would ask that.

Damon sighed, slouching in his seat like a school boy in front of the principal. Why did the rest of them think things like this were so simple? Liking someone, not liking them. Black, white. They had no concept of grey area, except for Fenix. Fenix seemed to occupy his own private universe of grey area.

In regard to Chelsea, Baird felt so turned around he didn't know up from down most of the time. "Am I allowed to want her?" he asked, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Mataki shrugged, speaking in a soft, grave tone. "Dom might think otherwise, but yes, you are. She's a big girl, so you are allowed that. But she's got a target on her back, Blondie," Bernie said, and she actually sounded a little sad for him, for both of them. She sounded the same way she did when she talked to Cole about his dead mother. Baird never thought he'd earn that same level of empathy. "If you get involved with Chelsea, she may need you to give her some little ones. You've made it pretty clear that's not on your bucket list. It may not be on hers either, but they _won't _give her a choice. If you're not up for that, you better walk away now."

She was right. Chelsea would be an all-or-nothing deal, and after having it laid out for him so clearly it should've been easy to dismiss the whole thing out of hand. But he couldn't.

Baird hated getting caught in the middle. Growing up he'd always lived between a rock and a hard place, rarely able to breathe easy. It felt like this thing with Chelsea and Wes and the PCD was pulling him in fifty different directions already. Why couldn't he let go? The worse things got, the harder he held on.

He cursed softly under his breath. At this point, he felt confident he'd spent way too much time with these people. Before meeting Delta this sort of thing never would've happened to him.

"She listens to me when I work on things," Baird mentioned absently, staring forward out the windshield. "Not even Cole really listens. I mean, he does, but most of it goes right out the other ear. She hangs on every word like...I don't know...like it might save her life or something. She's not girly like Anya, but she doesn't beat on her chest and demand she's one of the guys, either. She really tries to figure things out—figure people out. She keeps her head down and fights as smart as she can."

He couldn't explain it any better than that.

"You do like her," Bernie teased with a smile.

Embarrassed, Baird immediately backtracked. He cleared his throat, trying to pull back from his overextension. "I'm just saying—unlike most people, she's fairly tolerable to be around."

Bernie gave him a knowing smile and patted him on the shoulder. "Honestly, it sounds like you're not the only one with a crush, Blondie."

Baird shook his head, reaching to turn the key in the ignition. "Yeah," he said, disbelieving. "Right."

* * *

When a dark-haired boy opened the apartment door, Baird did a double take. And then he did a double take again. "Holy shit," he said, pointing at the kid. "Look, Granny, Santiago shrank in the wash." As an aside to Bernie, he added, "I knew burning through all the hot water would bite him in the ass someday."

Bernie elbowed him in the ribs. Apparently it wasn't funny, and if she had her way, he'd be ashamed of himself.

But he wasn't.

"You must be Carlo," Mataki said, speaking to him with the same general politeness she extended to any civilian, grown or small. She extended a hand for the boy to shake. Of course _she _would know what the hell was going on. No one ever bothered to tell Baird anything. "I'm Bernie Mataki, and this _charming_ young man is Baird."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Carlos said, taking Mataki's hand. "Nice to meet you, asshole," he said to Baird, completely deadpan, extending a hand for him to shake. The kid had a South Island accent. Not like Mataki's prim Queen's, but more like a native South Islander, like Tai's accent.

Baird just eyed the kid, searching for just the right retort and finally settling on a brisk, "Blow me," as he brushed past the kid and through the door, ignoring the kid's extended hand. Inside, he found Cole hunched over a sink full of dishes, looking as forlorn as Damon had ever seen him. Through the bathroom door he could see Dom and Marcus working on repairing the old leaking showerhead that needed to be decalcified and tightened up every so often.

"Hey, baby. How's it goin?" Cole asked. He sounded absolutely pathetic.

Baird gave Cole a sympathetic pat on the back in passing. Dishes weren't his favorite chore either, but Cole's extreme dislike sometimes puzzled him. The former Thrashball player never let anything get him down—except dishes. If a Boomer walked up and knocked on the front door while he was doing dishes, Cole would probably jump for joy.

Poking his head in the bathroom, Damon saw Fenix working on tightening the showerhead while Dom remained in strategic reserve, holding various tools and a container holding a small amount of pale green decalcifying agent.

"Is there anything you guys do that doesn't require the buddy system?" Baird asked. Sometimes he really couldn't help himself. "Is it possible you two never get laid because girls aren't cool with another guy holding your hand through it?"

"How about if we use the buddy system to throw you out an eighth story window, Baird? How does that sound?" Dom quipped, and the way he said it made it clear he was contemplating an attempt, even if it ended up being a one-man effort.

Baird let that one slide by, jerking one thumb over his shoulder. "Man, are you aware you have a look-alike doll answering your door?"

"He's my son. His name is Carlos." Dom said it like it was no big deal.

Damon blinked. Did those words really just come out of Santiago's mouth? Really? He turned to Fenix. "Are you aware he finally cracked up?" he blurted, pointing at Dom. "Isn't Carlos like, his dead brother? Don't get me wrong, I can understand if he did lose it. I always thought he was a little off."

"Maria was pregnant when she disappeared," Marcus said, starting to explain just as Dom's face began turning an interesting color of red. "She had a son, named him Carlos and abandoned him. He was raised by Stranded over in the South Islander neighborhoods. I found him while scouting for Bender the other day. He's probably been in the city longer than we have."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Baird asked, for a moment sure they were yanking his chain just to get a rise out of him, but then he got the full-bore, Sergeant Fenix, dead-eyed, _I'm so serious it's making me constipated _Look and thought twice about his first-brush assumption. He turned his head toward Dom. "Wait a second. I thought Maria disappeared because she was loco." He spun a finger around his ear to demonstrate how coo-coo she'd been. "I mean, seriously, man? You knocked up your wife while she was three sheets to the wind on heavy anti-depressants and completely out-of-her-gourd crazy?"

Baird didn't always mean to take things too far. Sometimes he _really_ did mean it, but on occasion it just sort of slipped out. Whether or not he actually meant to strip Dom down to his bare bones over the appearance of his son, there was no doubt that Dom really meant it when he tackled Baird in retaliation. It wasn't the first time the two of them had gone to the ground in a fight, but this time felt different. This time, Santiago really intended to tear him limb from limb.

* * *

Something wasn't right with him. Deep down Dom knew that. Ever since he found out about Carlo, he'd known he would crash soon.

He just didn't expect it to come about so quickly.

Strangely enough, regaining a son had hit him like a loss. He'd frozen inside the exact same way he'd frozen when he realized Bennie and Sylvie would never come home. Dom overloaded and shut down; he slapped on a smile and tried to remember how to behave, how to feel about being a father.

Finding Carlo should've made him feel elated, right? Why didn't he feel joyously uplifted? In fact, he felt almost the same way he'd felt years ago after Aspho, the night Sylvie was born and his brother Carlos died—leaving him torn between happiness, guilt and despair.

It took Baird voicing it aloud to bring the source of his pain to the surface.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on Baird's chest and trying to pound his head through the living room rug with Marcus behind him, attempting to pull him off. The carnal, reactionary part of him had snapped, while some other part of his consciousness floated above the fray, thinking very calmly that if life was fair someone would be sitting on his chest, trying to pound him through the fucking floor for what he did to Maria. He deserved it a hell of a lot more than Damon.

_I got her pregnant. _The thought ran through his head over and over again. _She was sick. How could I do that to her?_

In the midst of her illness he'd been weak when he should've been strong. She was so fragile then. Instead of taking care of his wife, he'd all but taken advantage of her. Marcus knew it. Dom realized that when his best friend hesitated to spit out Carlo's age. He would never say anything, but he knew. But Marcus was one thing—when Baird opened his mouth, Dom just couldn't take it.

Marcus got both arms around Dom's chest, and finally gained enough of a grip to haul him off. Dom was both glad for the intervention and unable to stop trying to lunge back in for more. He wanted blood, and he didn't care who it came out of. Maybe he really had cracked up.

After two decades of heartbreak after heartbreak, it took gaining something back to finally make him lose it.

"He's watching you," Marcus hissed in his ear. "He's watching every move you make."

Dom froze. Chest heaving and feeling overheated, his consciousness finally came back into his body. Sure enough, Carlo's keen brown eyes were locked on him. The boy stood next to Bernie, fascinated by the fight. Where he came from, it must've been a common thing for two grown men to throw down at the drop of a hat.

Bennie and Sylvie never would've seen their father behave like this.

_What if I can't do this?_ he wondered, a chill working its way through him, offsetting the heat. What if the war confiscated his ability to be a parent? He'd been so proud of himself, taking responsibility for Bennie at sixteen. At sixteen he'd had better impulse control than he did now. His nerves were frayed, his temper had a hair trigger and a teenager was a long way from a four-year-old.

Baird picked himself up off the floor, no worse for the wear. Not surprisingly, the blonde man knew how to cover when down. Baird eyed him, rubbing at his jaw while he gave a low whistle. "Tou-chy." It sounded like a taunt, but it wasn't. It surprised Dom to realize he knew Baird well enough to know the difference.

Marcus let go, walking past him. "Let's get a workout in," he said, marching forward and grabbing his gym bag from next to the door like nothing had happened. "It would do all of us some good."

Dom shook his head. He was supposed to go to the gym today with Chelsea and meet one of the dispatch girls. With Carlo's appearance, he'd almost forgotten. Would Chelsea remember? She'd gotten a hell of a shock when PCD showed up the night before, and visiting her mother hadn't helped things. She'd gone out with Wes to grab a late lunch a couple hours ago.

"Yeah, let's go," Dom echoed. Marcus was right. They could all do with letting off some steam. He gave Carlo's hair an affectionate rub when he passed by, and flashed the boy a sheepish smile.

_I am so screwed,_ he thought, picking up his own bag and ushering his son out the door ahead of him.

* * *

Baird circled cautiously around the ring, his fists up and body loose. Fenix looked like a big lumbering giant, but he had some speed. He'd socked Baird more than once when he thought he was safely out of the Sergeant's range.

"Come on. Let's see some action," Cole called from the sideline.

"Get 'em, Marcus," Carlo called.

Upon hearing the boy's voice, Baird's eyes narrowed. _Right. That's why I don't want kids. _He didn't want Santiago's kid, anyway. The boy was mouthy, disrespectful, uneducated and far too full of himself.

Damon wondered if he'd be more tolerant of his own kid. Most animals innately preferred their own young, but his own mother sure as hell hadn't. She'd preferred anything and everything over her two sons. For the sake of argument, say he happened to be living with Chelsea and they received a Conception Order and the two of them went through with it and had a son. What would the kid be like? Baird at least had a decent idea what the kid would look like. Blonde hair. Blue eyes like Chelsea, or green like his. Would the kid be a southpaw? Would he like mechanics? Would he be smart? Smarter than Baird?

That thought hit him like a punch below the belt. Could he stand having a kid smarter than him? Could he stand having a kid dumber than him?

Would said hypothetical child hate his parents?

_Who doesn't hate me after prolonged exposure? _Baird wondered.

Fenix took a swipe at Baird; a jab to test the waters. Damon slipped his head to the right, avoiding and then countering, coming over the top to pop Marcus in the chin with his right fist, forcing a grunt out of the larger man. He'd always been the most ambidextrous member of their group, and in boxing it showed.

Baird was a striker—he liked to fight on his feet with his fists. Fenix was the same way. Santiago sang a totally different tune. Like any good Commando, Dom loved to get a guy on the ground and tie him in a knot, breaking bones and stripping joints in the process. The man had never meet an arm bar or choke hold he didn't like.

Fenix worked his jaw back and forth after the strike. "You're fighting angry today," he noted dryly, still circling, like a shark. Baird didn't let his guard down for a second.

"Don't like it? Then quit letting me get shots in!" Sure he had an edge of speed on Marcus, but he'd never slipped in a hit so cleanly. It didn't take much brain power to figure out Fenix was letting him get a few in to make up for the beating Santiago had rained down on him earlier. They both knew Baird could've fought back instead of curling up on the floor and riding it out. The Sergeant had a strange frigging way of showing appreciation.

Marcus came back with a combo of right cross, left hook, right uppercut. Baird flowed with it, slipping, ducking, and finally stepping in and throwing the same left-handed haymaker he'd used to end countless bar fights.

Fenix caught the blow on his arm, tucking his chin and using his right arm to shield his face. A mountain of muscle, Marcus had one hell of a hard bicep. For an instant, Baird wondered if he'd broken his hand.

"Hey, Marcus! They're here!" Dom called from across the gym. He'd been going over grappling technique with Bernie on the exercise mats laid down on the hardwood basketball court.

The sparring match paused, and both of them glancing toward the door. Sure enough, Chelsea walked through the double doors, followed by a tall dark-skinned woman Damon didn't recognize. Terri-the-dispatch-girl, he guessed.

Chelsea had on sweats and a t-shirt. Unlike many girls, and in spite of a recently busted-up face, she actually looked cute in formless workout clothes. Not that Baird had much trouble imagining her form underneath those clothes. He'd spent enough time fantasizing about it...

The usual bounce in her step was gone today, and even though she tried to put on a good face he could tell she was dragging hard. Still upset about the PCD visit, apparently. The nearly-healed bruises under her eyes seemed a little darker than the night before. She probably didn't sleep well. Baird sure hadn't.

Under Mataki's direction, their little group soon got rearranged. Cole and Carlo went to the other side of the gym to play basketball while the rest of them were partnered up: Bernie with Terri-the-dispatch-girl, Marcus with Chelsea and Dom with Baird. Mataki claimed the reasoning behind her selections was to place each grappling beginner with a more experienced partner, matching by size. Technically that should've put Baird and Chelsea together, but then Dom had to butt in and suggest that Chelsea should have a much larger partner, so she could gain experience fighting off a much larger opponent.

It was probably an innocent suggestion on Santiago's part, but that didn't stop Baird from holding it against him. Although he knew 'guard' was a legitimate defense technique, in practice it appeared way too erotic for comfort and more than once Baird had to avert his eyes and shove down a flash of jealousy. _Yeah, I've got it bad,_ he admitted internally.

Towering over Chelsea on his knees, Marcus held his body over hers, swatting at her face and forcing her to protect herself. Chelsea was completely at ease on her back beneath the former Sergeant, her legs wrapped tight around his hips, ankles locked at the small of his back. She even smiled when he faked her out, getting a swat in when she left her face open.

A tiny chill ran down Damon's spine when he realized they had potential. He'd never noticed before, but there was something tangible between Chelsea and Marcus. Baird couldn't pin down what exactly they had, but it was an ease and familiarity Fenix shared with few people. It was like a puff of white cloud on a sunny day, barely there and hard to see. It fell far from the heated electrical storm of pent up passion that raged every time Anya crossed paths with Delta in person, but it was still there.

Fenix's core was so thick Chelsea had a hard time getting a good hold on him with her legs. He could slip out of her guard with minimal effort, and Dom was trying to teach her how to compensate, demonstrating on a very reluctant Baird.

"Come on, Chelsea, control him with your legs," Dom coached.

On the far side of Marcus and Chelsea, the tall girl named Terri laughed. "Ah, man, you can't make her keep working with him. It's cruel."

Chelsea inched her butt closer to Marcus's hips, wrapping her legs tighter around him. "My calves are cramping," she grumbled. Laying flat on her back, she pointed an accusing finger up at Marcus. "You're too big," she informed him with narrowed eyes.

Marcus shrugged, replying with a dead-pan, "That's what they tell me."

Baird let one skeptical eyebrow arch upward. Did Fenix just make a sexually motivated joke? If so, that was a double whammy of strange coming from the former Sergeant. The joke and the implied motivation.

"Oh yeah? Like who?" Baird asked innocently, just to be a dick, forgetting for a moment his precarious position in Santiago's guard.

Dom grabbed his arm, pulling it out straight, and before Baird could shift his attention back to the task at hand he was slammed down on his back, his arm getting torqued the wrong way against Dom's thigh. Frantically tapping Dom's shin, the pressure released and he was allowed to reclaim his limb.

Baird grumbled a few choice words loud enough for everyone to hear, gripping his shoulder and pulling into himself. He really owed Santiago a punch in the face.

"All right," Mataki said, using her grandmotherly take-charge voice. "Let's switch partners for a while and then we'll take a break."

So they played musical partners and when the dust cleared Chelsea was with Dom, Terri with Marcus, and he had Mataki.

"How's Granny's boy?" the steel-haired woman asked, lying back while he knelt over her. Apparently he still got to be the bitch in guard.

"I can't even tell you how _overjoyed_ I am to be here," he spat, letting her wrap him up and pull him in with an eye roll. "God, I look like I'm about to screw an old woman."

"You do not," Bernie said, like he was silly to think so. On the inside she was probably laughing her ass off at him.

Baird sighed, glancing over at Chelsea working at landing an arm-bar on good old Saint Dom. At least there was nothing between those two. He was pretty sure of that, anyway.

* * *

The building the guys used to work out used to be a rec center, and structurally it was in surprisingly good shape. In the gym, they'd gathered together a section of mats on one quarter of the floor and a set of weights on the opposite quarter. An entire half of the gym was left bare, with the better of the two basketball hoops mounted at regulation height. There was enough room on the outer rim of the basketball court for jogging laps.

Chelsea couldn't help but wonder which of them had planned the arrangement out. A Sergeant like Marcus would insist on regular PT, which would include running and various other calisthenics, but the extensive weight collection looked more like something Cole would desire, although she knew all of them pumped iron. The guys had obviously put a great deal of time and effort into this place. They kept other people out by posting official signs warning of the imminent collapse of the building, and wrapped a lot of heavy-duty chain around the door handles.

Dom gave Chelsea pointers on grappling to the best of his ability, but his heart clearly rested elsewhere. His eyes never strayed far from Carlo across the gym.

Chelsea noted his lack of attention, mildly frustrated by it while the two of them lay perpendicular to each other on the mats. Chelsea held one of Dom's fists against her chest, his thick bicep between her thighs, her calves resting on his chest with her ankles crossed. If she leaned back, in theory Dom's elbow should be forced straight against the fulcrum of her pelvis. It was the same maneuver Dom had executed effortlessly on Baird just moments before. He'd made it look so easy she thought she'd pick it up fast.

She tried with all her might to pull his elbow out straight and torque it the wrong way in a straight arm-bar, but in spite of his gaze resting on the basketball game across the gym she couldn't make any headway against even one of his limbs. Dom was too strong. Marcus was too big. She couldn't win against either of them.

Letting go of Dom's arm with an exasperated sigh, Chelsea rolled back over her shoulder and onto her knees, kneeling quietly a few feet away. She despised feeling weak and inadequate. It didn't help that the heated conversation she'd had with Marcus the previous evening when she tried to run away kept digging deeper under her skin with each passing hour, and failing to be effective at anything sunk her even deeper into depression. Letting her palms rest lightly on top of her thighs, she wondered why she couldn't handle this. Why couldn't she think of any better solution than running away?

Marcus was right. She _was _a coward. The COG never should've allowed her to wear an officer's uniform.

"Hey, Chels?" Dom said softly, head still turned toward the basketball game. Carlo was laughing and having a great time, unaware of his father's gaze. Cole usually let him score, but when the boy shot the ball he almost always hit the basket. A pretty amazing feat sometimes, considering his small stature. "How should I approach him? I have so many questions, but I'm afraid to ask. Don't know if I want to know some of the answers."

Carlo made a fade shot from beyond the three point line, beating Cole's lax defense. Elated, the boy's face lit up. He was handsome, especially with that wide, cocky grin on his face—like his father but with more light in his eyes, his soul less burdened.

"Heh. Nice shot, 'lil Santiago." Cole extended a hand and Carlo hit the low-five.

"You know it, brah. All day long." The boy exuded cheerful faux bravado.

"God, he does look just like Carlos," Dom marveled softly, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Chelsea sighed, finding it difficult to stomach Dom's sudden dive back into parenthood. Carlo enamored Dom like a newborn would, and any other day of her life she would've found Dom's constant state of distraction very sweet. Just, not today.

Returning her thoughts to the question at hand, Chelsea wondered how exactly she would approach a thirteen-year-old war survivor. Carlo grew up in a culture doubly different from the one Dom knew. Carlo had been raised by South Islanders who also happened to be Stranded. In order to approach him successfully, one would need to know the rules of the culture that raised him.

"I don't know," Chelsea said, her voice dull. She didn't have the energy to elaborate on this subject. Her heart felt like it was toting around a hundred pounds of bricks.

At last Dom turned to look at her. Obviously, that wasn't the response he'd expected. Most of the time she couldn't help but give an opinion on a matter relating to the human condition, it being her present field of study.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, looking so concerned with his brow furrowed, his dark eyes focused on her. She had his full attention now, and it made her eyes drop in shame.

Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, Chelsea thought for a minute, and then said, "I think it's going to be a rough transition for both of you. It would've been easier for both of you if he was younger. But if you ask me, that kid won the lottery. He has a dad; and it's you, Dom. You're not going to let anything bad happen to him." She really meant that, too. Maybe Dom couldn't save her, but he'd always be there to save Carlo. God, she admired him so much.

Chelsea turned away, pretending to study the weight set sitting thirty feet away. At that moment she longed so acutely for her own father's presence it nearly brought her to tears, which seemed strange because she hadn't thought very hard about her father in a long time. He'd died during her early years and over time the pang of his loss grew dimmer on the horizon, overshadowed by the more acute pain of losing people she remembered well. Even after so many years, Chelsea vaguely remembered what it felt like to have an intelligent, capable dad watching over her. Someone she knew could protect her.

Her throat grew suddenly tight. No one could protect her now.

_Suck it up, _she scolded herself. She'd cried far too often lately, and it didn't help anything. The world was full of orphans. They were all alone. Running away might kill her, but it was the best plan of action she had, and she would carry it out.

"Are there any pads or shields around here?" Bernie asked. She was standing with Baird, Marcus and Terri. Apparently the four of them were discussing teaching Terri how to box.

"There might be some in the back closet. I'll check," Baird volunteered, sounding unusually eager, considering the mundane nature of the task. Maybe he really wanted to get away from all this. Chelsea was surprised he'd even showed up.

Damon tapped her shoulder on the way by. "Come on, I'll show you where we keep the good stuff around here."

Chelsea rose, following him out of the gym and through a winding hallway with bare pipes and wires above their heads, where the hanging ceiling had deteriorated and eventually fallen apart, leaving some tiles still hanging and some in mushy piles she had to weave through. Water leaked in a few places, dripping steadily, but the bare light bulbs were still on, showing them the way.

They came to an open area with pool tables and a counter where the rec center attendant would've sat, overseeing the common area. "The closet's back here," Baird said, hopping up and sliding easily across the counter, leaving behind fresh scuff marks on the dulled metal face of the counter top.

Chelsea slowly hoisted with her arms until she could get a knee on the counter, and then crawled after him, stopping short when she suddenly found herself nose-to-nose with Baird.

He didn't look very happy.

"I need to talk to you about your boyfriend," he said gravely, like he'd been building up to this for some time, just waiting for a chance to get her alone and nailed down for a moment.

Chelsea sighed, maneuvering so she could sit down on the edge of the counter, her legs dangling over the side. Baird placed a hand on either side of her, barring her path and making it clear they weren't going anywhere until they talked.

Brushing aside her bangs from her forehead, Chelsea looked straight into Baird's green eyes and said, "I don't have a boyfriend. I dumped him. So take your '_I told you so_' and shove it. And for the record, you didn't '_tell me so_,' so _you_ can doubly shove it."

That seemed to bring him up short. All he said was, "Oh." Suddenly he sounded a little unsure—like this was far from the direction he'd expected the conversation to go. It sounded like he'd expected a hell of a fight. "Well, that's good, because I think he's fucking crazy," he finally said, recovering. Then they both fell silent.

Chelsea really didn't know what to think at that moment. She stared at Baird's chest for a moment or two before lifting her eyes to his face and finding him looking down at her. Wondering what he might be thinking about, she realized neither of them had said anything for a while, but sitting there in silence, even so close together, didn't feel uncomfortable.

Close enough to see a faded scar on the right side of Damon's chin, she reached out to touch it before her brain realized what she was about to do. He didn't pull away, and her fingertips gently navigated the short path of the mark along his bristly jaw line.

Suddenly restraint seemed like a silly, antiquated concept that had no place in such a horrific time and place. No one else had any qualms with letting loose and doing whatever the fuck they wanted, even if it meant beating the shit out of her for no good reason. So why should she endure an unquenchable want and never confront it? Why let these opportunities pass by unchallenged?

Chelsea almost burst out laughing, just thinking about how ridiculous it was to fear rejection by a member of the opposite sex when they could do so much worse to her.

Nerves stretched slack by terror and loneliness, it didn't seem so scary when she slipped one hand around to the back of Damon's neck, feeling the soft buzzed blond hair at the base of his skull. He froze when her lips pressed against his, completely still like she'd just shocked him. For just a moment her eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the kiss, the rough brush of his chin against hers. He smelled like biodiesel and grease and deodorant and sweat, like a machine shop and hard work, but she'd grown up with those smells and it always reminded her of coming home. It felt like she could go on kissing him forever, and Chelsea took _profound_ satisfaction in doing this with Baird first, with a real man, instead of with Wes.

Letting Damon go, Chelsea knew a goofy smile had spread across her face. That smile got wiped away a second later when his mouth crushed against hers. Baird's large hands pulled her flush against his front, his fingers hooking under her knees and throwing her legs around his hips.

Right then the whole world could've exploded behind her, and Chelsea never would've known. His shoulders were solid beneath her wandering hands, and his firm body felt amazing pressed so tight against her.

He sighed through his nose while he kissed her, deeply satisfied; and when she gave him a small, full-bodied squeeze, his hips bucked involuntarily, his fingers playing along the hem of her shirt and just underneath it, tracing the muscles at the small of her back, his thumbs stroking over the points of her hips under her shirt.

Things might've gotten out of hand if the bang of a door hitting the wall from down the hallway and around the corner hadn't snapped them out of it, causing their lip-lock to end. Startled, Chelsea attempted to spring away, but Baird's strong hands held her hips in place, gently rubbing the tops of her thighs while he restrained her.

"Hey! You find anything?" Dom called. They couldn't see him so he must've stayed by the gym door. If he made his way to the first corner, he'd be able to see them sitting there and Chelsea didn't want to break it to him that way. He deserved better from her.

Damon gave her one of his more recalcitrant looks, his hands still firm on her so she couldn't get away. Not that she wanted to be anywhere else at that moment. He spoke low so only she could hear, "You know, I should tell him you were just getting down on your knees in front of me to..."

Blushing deep red, Chelsea smacked his shoulder. "Don't you dare!" she hissed, but she couldn't help cracking a smile.

He smirked, and it was almost a real smile. It looked good on him. "I was _going_ to say you were getting down on your knees to tie your boot."

"No you weren't!"

"You're right, I wasn't. But after all the shit I've taken off him today, he'd deserve it."

"You guys there?" Dom called.

"Yeah, we're coming!" Baird yelled back, irritated. "Would it kill you assholes to clean this place up once in a while? The closet's a friggin' mess."

Down the hall, they heard the door bang shut once more, restoring their tentative privacy.

"We should get back," Chelsea suggested, but she didn't move, too busy staring at him. At least now she didn't have to pretend her eyes weren't raking over his body with admiration, and a bit of lust.

"We should." Baird let his gaze flick over her in return, and the look of predatory hunger in his eyes made her skin warm, especially her cheeks. Wes had looked at her like that too, but he'd always made her feel a bit uneasy and she hadn't known why until now. With Baird, she sensed an underlying safety net of maturity and restraint. She'd never felt that with Wes. It was nice to feel wanted, and secure. "Just one condition," he said. "I'm your partner the rest of tonight."

"Why?" she asked, unable to help it when a dumb grin appeared on her face.

Baird shrugged, doing a bit of an eye roll at her naivety. "Call me crazy, but I don't really like rolling on the floor with other guys while packing wood. Or Mataki—God, she'd never let me live it down either." Then he glanced down between them to emphasize the point. Her legs were still secure around his waist.

Chelsea didn't think she could turn a darker color of red, but once again Damon proved her wrong. At least he gave her one more parting kiss to make up for it. And when she crawled across the counter away from him when they were finally ready to head back to the gym, he gave her a playful smack on the ass for good measure.


	26. Chapter 26

While following Chelsea back to the gym, Baird noted the way she seemed to float, glancing back over her shoulder at him, all smiling and giddy and not quite sure what to do with herself.

Baird just smirked, swaggering along behind her, smug pride readily apparent on his face. He'd never seen her like this, not even with Wes. Not even close. When they'd walked down this hall a few moments ago, Chelsea had dragged her feet, desolate and distant. He'd put the bounce back in her step, and if 'Buzz-Kill Santiago' hadn't interrupted, he might've put more than that in her.

Then again, maybe Dom did him a favor. Although Baird's mouth often got carried away, the rest of him usually stayed pretty firmly under control. Until his lips met hers, and he felt that warm, willing body pressed tight against him from groin to collar, he'd thought the concept of irresistible temptation was a myth. Chelsea had stood at the center of all his recent fantasies—or rather, she'd laid invitingly on his bed without a stitch of clothing on—but he didn't realize it would take so much effort to step back from her after getting a taste.

He'd never been easily intoxicated by anything before, and found it a little unsettling. Deep down he knew this was heading fast toward some very concrete things, like attachment, and potential commitment, and all kinds of other crazy shit. In the back of his mind, his eternal cynic kept trying to set off the alarm while he got sucked deeper and deeper into a haze that left him staring at her assets and gunning for rivals. The way he felt right now, if she asked him to throw down with any guy in the COG he'd probably do it. And for what? To impress her? Why the hell should that matter to him?

_Shit. After all the time I spent ragging on dumb, cave-dwelling assholes, I'm actually becoming one of them, _he thought with disgust.

With her hand on the door handle, Chelsea stopped suddenly before opening the gym door and he had to grab her hips and go up on his toes to keep from crashing into her, suddenly finding his entire front molded against her backside, her ass catching him in the groin and his breath catching in his throat.

_Oh, right. That's why impressing her matters to me._

Chelsea treated him to a tiny smirk over her shoulder, leaning into him to increase the contact. Reaching back with one arm, she pulled him down by the back of the neck—apparently her favorite handhold on him—and gave him one last warm, disarming kiss. The lack of blood supply to his brain actually left him a little fuzzy when she finally let go, turning to push in the handle and rejoin the others in the gym.

The loss of her warmth made it feel cold and drafty standing out in the hallway by himself. After taking a moment to collect his wits, he followed her inside. Later he'd have to tell her about Wes. They'd have to talk about a lot of things and he sighed internally while mentally ticking them all off. No matter how he tried to lay a thought aside and not let it bother him, Baird always needed closure on even the most microscopic issues, otherwise they would nag and badger him worse than Mataki.

He needed to know exactly what Chelsea expected from him, or else his brain would whir at high speed all the time, chunking out all the possibilities. He wouldn't sleep. He'd still be able to work, but that would lead into a whole different world of hurt. Whenever he ran from something by burying his head in a project, he typically didn't come up for air for days, maybe even weeks.

The others were too sucked into teaching Terri how to fight dirty on the ground to notice when the two of them walked in. Fenix lay flat on the mats with Terri perched his chest and Dom kneeling beside her, encouraging her to use eye gouges and punches to the throat against a real opponent.

Bernie asked something about pads, and Baird grumbled something back about not being able to find anything for the mess. Mataki let it go. Either she believed him or she noticed his attention clearly rested elsewhere.

Perhaps just to act casual, or maybe just to torture his already tenuous control, Chelsea sat down on the mats, laying back and inviting him into her guard.

Going down on his knees in front of her, Baird tried hard to calm down. No matter how much he tried to remind himself this was just an innocent practice session, his traitorous body trembled in anticipation at the thought of _finally _having her under him.

Chelsea wrapped her legs around his hips. Pulling him close, she gave him a friendly squeeze and he almost came undone. Then, in his distracted state, she grabbed his left arm above the elbow, shoved the heel of her palm under his chin, and used her legs to flip their positions. She never should've been able to flip him like that, but his brain and reflexes clearly rested somewhere outside his head.

Now sitting on his chest, a tiny smirk threatened to break across her face, but she fought it down for his sake. Then, she glanced around the room. Bernie, Dom, Terri and Marcus were all facing away. Cole and Carlo were just exiting the gym to grab a drink from the fountain in the hall. With all bases covered, she ran her fingers affectionately over his cropped hair.

"You know," he said, keeping his voice low. "You're either going to have to learn to keep your hands off me, or we're going to have to tell them."

"Oh, we're definitely going to tell them. I doubt the rest of them will care, but Dom's had enough of a shock today with Carlo."

Baird nodded, clearly seeing her logic. He'd already gotten pounded on once today. Better to wait for Santiago to shrug off some of the crazy machismo he was toting around. Also, it might be a good idea to figure out what exactly they planned to tell. What the hell were they? Did Chelsea consider him a boyfriend? A friend with benefits? A walking sperm factory? If that's all she wanted, Wes probably would've been more than willing to give it to her and she dumped the bastard.

Chelsea pulled in her lower lip, chewing on it while contemplating something deep and distant. Apparently her thoughts were running along the same line. "I've never felt this way for anyone before," she concluded softly, after a long moment of internal examination.

Baird gave her calf a squeeze on the far side, where the others wouldn't see it. "Me either," he admitted, unable to meet her eyes when he said it. It was bad enough he drooled over her all the time, now he felt like a stupid kid, getting all sappy over the first chick his hormones pointed him toward and mistaking the feeling for love. It was too soon for undying declarations, but she seemed pretty thrown by all this too, and that helped. Made it feel less overwhelming, and less ridiculous.

"Let's take it slow, then," she said, taking hold of his wrist and pressing the back of his hand against her heart. He got a small smile and a gentle squeeze before she slipped sideways off his chest, swinging around his arm the same way she'd swing around a pole and just missing his face with her left heel when she threw her leg across him, landing him perfectly in a straight arm bar with his upper arm drawn across her pelvis and his elbow forced to bend the wrong direction until he tapped her shin in submission. It was the same maneuver she hadn't managed to execute on Santiago earlier.

The pressure released when he tapped, and she let go, laying perpendicular to him with her legs across his chest. Yes, they definitely would need to take it slow, Baird decided, turning his head to eye her, finding her reclining in comfort, hands behind her head and smiling vaguely at the ceiling.

They'd take it slow, and maybe it wouldn't be so bad—in spite of the mounting evidence that she had him firmly by the nuts.

* * *

What a difference an hour made. Chelsea felt uplifted and hopeful for the first time in a long time. Like a lovesick teenager, she got an electric thrill out of every touch, every brush of skin, every glance exchanged.

When they were all done for the night, Chelsea walked beside Damon out of the gym, carrying her canvas bag on one shoulder and letting her hip occasionally bump his. Each time he'd glance over and she'd try hard not to smile.

More than anything she wanted to reach over and lace her fingers through his. Maybe tomorrow they'd sit down with Dom and tell him. Let him sleep on finding his long-lost son before hitting him with more startling news. After that, who knew what might happen?

Chelsea sighed happily. _Let's start with holding hands, and hopefully we'll be able to take our time with the rest._

Besides, she wasn't even sure Baird would be up for walking down the street hand-in-hand, but maybe he'd indulge her.

"You seem happier," Marcus commented, coming up on her other side.

Chelsea sighed. "A workout can do that for you," she acknowledged, her knuckles brushing Baird's in the course of walking, and it was almost an accident.

Carlo slipped between the two of them, delightedly running from Cole, a wallet in hand and a large smile on his face.

"You can't catch me, brah!" he shouted over his shoulder.

"Do you even _know_ who you're talking to, little man?" Cole called back, showing amazing footwork and grace when he managed to move between Marcus and Chelsea without knocking into either of them. Man and boy took off down the hall and out the back door at a dead sprint.

"He's fast for a little guy," Chelsea commented.

"Way faster than any other Santiago I've ever known," Marcus acknowledged, and then his eyes slid sideways to regard his friend, who was bringing up the rear, the outer corner of his mouth turning up. It was subtle, but apparently even Marcus took a poke at the other guys once in a while.

Looking huffy, Dom snorted with disgust. "Says the man who can't run two miles in under fourteen minutes."

"Yeah, but I can sprint a hundred meters before you get out of the blocks."

"You _could,_ Marcus. You aren't twenty-two anymore, you know."

"Dom, if it makes you feel any better, I can guarantee you'll always be faster than Carlos. He couldn't sprint for shit."

Mataki looped a comforting arm through Dom's. "Don't listen to him. Carlos did just fine—as long as his feet were firmly on dry land."

Marcus snorted at that. It was the sort of snort that came from amusement at some old shared joke.

Apparently Dom didn't get it.

"What do you mean on dry land?" Dom asked, looking suspiciously between the two of them.

"Let's just say Carlos had an incident while practicing beach landings," Marcus said. "He almost drowned in the kiddy pool."

They all hit the outer door, with Baird leading the way out. He'd been quiet for the past few minutes, but the others didn't seem to notice. Chelsea followed him out, too busy enjoying an eyeful of his ass to notice someone off to the side outside the door, in the shadows of the alley.

Suddenly Wes was standing beside her, and Chelsea started away from him, reaching for the pistol at her hip only to find it gone, put away in her bag.

Wes held his hands up in a placating manner. His eye had swollen shut and turned a nasty color of red-purple. "No, I just came to talk. I need to talk to you, Chelsea. I'm so sorry about what happened."

Her mouth fell open and she tried to speak, but got stuck. Did she have anything to say to him?

Before she could collect herself, Wes had Baird in his face, almost nose-to-nose, except Damon had three inches on her ex-boyfriend. "That's funny, because I need to talk to _you,_" Baird growled fiercely, eyes narrowed.

Wes tried to shove him away. "I'm here to talk to my girl!" he said. He had no idea he'd already been replaced, and Chelsea felt her cheeks flushing red.

It wasn't supposed to come out this way. She'd made her choice and none of this was necessary. After fighting for the survival of the human race, no one should be fighting over her.

Baird grabbed Wes's left hand, turning it over and examining it, keeping a steel grip while the younger man tried to pull away.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he screamed.

"See this?" Baird asked, pointing to Wes's index finger, to the raised scar Chelsea had traced affectionately with her thumb on more than one occasion while they were dating. "Man, you really should learn how to hold a knife properly if you're going to keep stabbing people to death."

"Let me go!" Wes took a swing at Baird, hitting him in the shoulder when the larger man tucked his chin and used his arm to guard against the blow aimed at the side of his head.

"Let him go, Blondie," Bernie ordered. She stood off to the side, tense but ready, with Terri standing next to her.

Apparently satisfied with the evidence he'd found, Damon released Wes's hand, but he didn't get out of young man's face.

"You murdered three men!" Baird accused, once again nose-to-nose with Wes. "If you ever start shit with anyone I know ever again, I'll put you in the ground next to them," he growled, his voice so low on that last part that only Wes and Chelsea could hear him.

"It was self-defense!" Wes shouted back. "You don't fucking know me, man! You don't know what they did to me!" Wes shoved Baird away, but the blond got right back in his face.

"How'd you get that black eye? Huh? Who gave it to you? Because I think that circle over your eye looks like it came from the muzzle of a service pistol. Believe me, asshole, I run my mouth all day long and no one's ever jacked me in the eye with a .45, so what the fuck did you do to deserve it?"

Wes started swinging wildly at Baird, and for a moment Damon got caught standing flat footed. He gave ground before he ducked his head and started swinging back. Neither connected hard because of their close proximity, but it was only a matter of time.

Chelsea placed a hand on each man's shoulder, trying to wedge her way between them. "Whoa! Whoa, stop! Come on, knock it off!" she shouted, her words lost in the midst of the fight.

Dom got in on the other side of the two men, and slowly they began to make progress separating the two. With his friends in the way, Baird stopped throwing punches, but that didn't stop him puffing out his chest and throwing taunts.

"You pissed, Kendall? Huh? Well, at least you were a big enough man to fight me with your fists, asshole."

It happened too fast to follow. One second it was just a minor scuffle on the downswing, mere seconds from getting broken up, and the next second Wes's left hand came upward fast, too fast to stop. The blow was clearly meant for Baird, but Dom moved into the way and grunted at the impact. Seized by a coughing fit, Dom immediately released Wes and Baird, pulling his arm in over where he'd been hit, unsteady on his feet.

At first Chelsea thought Dom had caught a stray uppercut and it knocked the wind out of him, but the way Wes struggled to pull his hand away looked odd.

Chelsea gasped when she realized Dom had just been stabbed in the chest.

Jerking the knife free, Wes stepped back, unhindered after Dom released him. Chelsea didn't think—she threw her own body at Dom, shielding him and taking a blow to the kidneys that nearly put her down on her knees. When Dom fell, she went down with him, covering him.

Wes turned tail and ran, Baird tearing after him like a bat out of hell and Bernie following both of them. With her cheek resting against Dom's warm chest, Chelsea watched them go, listening to their boots pounding the pavement even after they disappeared from sight. Beneath her, Dom struggled to breathe, a wheezing whistle signaling each breath leaving his lungs, the sound occasionally interrupted by a raw, dry cough.

When the sound of pounding boots faded far off in the distance, she let her focus return to listening. With her ear pressed low against his chest, she could hear air circulating without any crackling or fluid sounds. Chelsea blinked slowly a few times, feeling warm and comfortable. It really would be nice to lay here for a while. The second she got up, she'd have to face the dread marching steadily forward from the back of her mind.

A large hand game to rest on her back. Marcus.

"Chelsea?" his voice rumbled in the dark.

_I really do know how to get beat up, _she thought, wincing against the pain slowly ebbing from her backside. Even though she hadn't shifted position yet, waiting for the shock and pain to fade to a tolerable level, her fingers were already probing Dom's wound, measuring and diagnosing better than her eyes could in the dim lighting. She found the tip of the knife embedded in one of his ribs. It had been a small blade, just a flimsy pocket knife. It struck the rib upon entering, and then snapped off.

_He's not going to die,_ she tried to assure herself. There was damage. Rib broken, secondary puncture wound where the broken blade had cut in after it snapped off, although not nearly as deep as it wound have been with a sharp tip. The stab wound was blunted, bloody but shallow.

Chelsea sighed, finally bracing to raise her upper half off of him. Her hand came away from the wound slicked red, but the rate of blood flow didn't alarm her.

"Lift his feet up so he doesn't go into shock," Chelsea said, but she didn't need to. When she turned she found Marcus already kneeling, holding Dom's boots approximately fifteen inches off the ground. He knew how she operated, and for one tenuous moment Chelsea could pick the thoughts right out of Marcus's head. Everything about him spoke so clearly to her—from the way he remained very still, to the way he bowed his head, like a large, hulking statue enduring the weight of eternal despair,

His ice blue eyes caught her gaze and she saw his throat go tight as he swallowed hard. _Save him._ _I don't care what it takes,_ those eyes said to her.

Marcus looked like he might be sick.

Chelsea stripped off her shirt, leaving only a black sports bra with holes in the elastic band to keep her decent. She made a compress out of her PT shirt, using it to stem the flow of blood. "Give me yours, too," she ordered, and Marcus shifted Dom's feet onto his lap and then very smoothly reached behind his head and jerked off his shirt, no questions asked.

With Marcus's t-shirt resting in her lap, suddenly Chelsea had a quandary on her hands. She needed to make a binding for the compress to hold it in place, but she couldn't release pressure on the wound. On the verge of asking Marcus to move around and apply pressure, suddenly Terri knelt down next to her. Chelsea almost started. She'd all but forgotten the soft-spoken woman standing in the shadows.

"Tell me how to help," Terri requested. She seemed taken aback by the sudden outburst of violence but, bless her, she was still willing to pitch in.

Dom had spent a lot of time that evening teaching Terri how to protect herself. Apparently his effort wasn't lost on the woman. In the post-war climate, disease had climbed quickly to the top of human fears. Avoiding the blood of strangers had become common sense once again without the war looming overhead. This was no small thing Terri offered to do for Dom.

"Hold here," Chelsea said. Problem solved. Terri held the compress on, and Chelsea got to work making the binding.

Dom was pale, but his eyes were sharp and aware. His mouth firmed against the pain, and he kept his eyes turned upward, away from them. It seemed so unlike him to tear up over an injury, but there was no mistaking that bright sheen on his black eyes. Dom struggled desperately to keep his composure. Coughs still racked him, but they were dry. He'd have a sore throat, but blood didn't appear to be seeping into his lungs.

Chelsea reached out to cup Dom's face. "I need you to relax. You're going to be fine," she assured him when his eyes met hers. He heaved several deep breaths, slowly forcing down his fear and calming. When he nodded his understanding of her words, Chelsea resumed ripping Marcus's t-shirt so it would form a long strip that could be used to wrap around Dom's ribs and hold the compress in place. She bit down on the cloth edge with her teeth to guide each tear.

"I can't leave Carlo," Dom whispered.

So that was where his anxiety stemmed from. She should've known.

"I can't orphan him. Again."

"You won't," she promised, making the final tear. This was all her fault and she could never let it happen again. For Dom's sake, and for the sake of everyone who cared for him. He would always throw himself in harm's way for his friends, and she hadn't earned that. "Help me sit him up. We need to get him stabilized and then get him to a doctor."

"He could die in a hospital," Marcus reminded somberly.

Chelsea almost turned and snapped, "I'm well fucking aware, Marcus!" But she didn't. It wouldn't help. Terri was already stiff as a board sitting between them, looking a little green around the gills, like she might puke or faint, and Chelsea had a feeling if she and Marcus got into a real officer/sergeant bullshit throw-down, they might lose their crucial third member.

"He'll die we don't get him to medical attention. Is that clear?" she asked, some of the lieutenant coming back into her voice. "Now help me sit him up!"

Marcus obeyed, using brute strength as gingerly as he could to help Dom sit upright so Chelsea could quickly wrap his ribs, tying the compress down tight—but not too tight—and relieving Terri's undoubtedly cramped fingers.

"This is going to hurt like hell," she informed Dom, "But we can't stop. The sooner we get there the better off you'll be."

Dom nodded, in too much pain to trust his voice.

Chelsea got under his injured arm, and Marcus got under his good arm. Together, they lifted him onto his feet and slowly but surely made their way down the alley. Terri followed behind them, carrying all the extra duffel bags that got left behind in the commotion.

_Leave it to a mother to tend to all the loose ends the rest of us forgot about in the heat of the moment, _Chelsea mused. Terri asked them to teach her how to fight, but there was a lot they could learn from her, too. About a lot of things.

Glancing back once at the eerily quiet alleyway, Chelsea felt a pang of worry for Baird, but quickly quashed it. She had to live in the now and save the man in front of her. Save Dom, and later she could berate Damon for making her worry—assuming she ever saw him alive again.

Just before they arrived at the mouth of the alley, Carlo came streaking around the corner, stopping just before running into them. The same infectious grin he'd had on his face all day suddenly fell off it when he saw his father being helped along, blood soaked bandages affixed to his chest.

Carlo's entire face fell, and his eyes glazed over with fear. Before any of them could react, he bolted off into the night, picking a random direction and sprinting for all he was worth.

"No!" Dom grunted, trying to call out and unable to manage it. He tried to reach out but he didn't have the strength. Marcus had to shift under his arm to keep him from falling to his knees.

Cole jogged up, not far behind his query. He came up short when he saw Dom and muttered a somber, "Ah, shit."

"Find Carlo," Dom pleaded, his dark eyes beseeching the former Thrashball player.

"Yeah," Cole agreed quickly. "Yeah, man. I'm on it." He turned, taking off in the same direction Carlo had just taken. He seemed glad for any excuse to step away from the scene.

They managed to get Dom over to Baird's truck, and Terri dropped the tailgate and jumped in the back, dropping off her heavy cargo and then clearing a space to lay Dom down in the bed, next to one of the wheel wells.

* * *

With the lowered tailgate looming ever closer with each excruciating, drunkenly-weaving step, Dom let his arm fall off Marcus's shoulders. It was probably hypocritical—no, it was _very_ hypocritical—but he didn't want Marcus helping him even though he knew, without a doubt, if their roles were reversed he'd be under Marcus's arm, ignoring his friend's grumbled protests.

Guys didn't like getting dragged around by other guys, no matter how good of friends they were. Fact of life.

Marcus made a disapproving noise at the back of his throat, but Dom covered the refusal of assistance by using his good arm to climb up on the tailgate, sliding up onto it on his uninjured side, and then letting Chelsea help him scoot toward the front of the truck bed.

It took a lot of grunting and cursing, but he finally made it in, shocked when Chelsea plopped down with her back against the cab, placing a leg on either side of him for support during the ride and guiding his head to rest on her bare stomach.

_Carlo...why'd you run away? Don't you know I'll never leave you, hijo?_ He couldn't stand the thought of abandoning his son, but Carlo didn't know that. After all, his mother had abandoned him. _I'm the steady one. I was once and I can be again. Come back to me and I'll prove it, Carlo, I promise. I'll drive out my demons if that's what it takes._

Chelsea's fingers gently stroked through his hair, and in spite of himself he had to admit it felt good. The sharp ache in his side needled ceaselessly, and her calm petting served as some distraction from the pain.

"You okay?" Chelsea asked.

Dom let his eyes fall shut, his breathing shallow to avoid irritation. It'd been a long time since he'd been in such a precarious position with a woman. During his teenage years he'd laid in bed like this with Maria many times, usually after making love to her, the act often reuniting them after yet another long absence. When she was pregnant, he'd rest his head on her abdomen with her baby bump situated under his ear so he could hear the faint bubbling sound of Bennie or Sylvie inside her. Maria had stroked his hair too, just like Chelsea did.

_This is inappropriate. She's young enough to be your daughter. _

_But she's not your daughter._ For the first time, that fact hit Dom like a ton of bricks. Even if he thought it—some deeper, more instinctual part of him didn't believe it. He didn't find himself attracted to her, but he couldn't pretend she belonged to his flesh when she didn't. Even if he wanted to coddle her, he couldn't. There was too much Gear in her, too much base survival instinct.

In hindsight, Dom realized Maria had turned into a fragile thing after becoming a mother. As a child she'd climbed tall trees faster than any boy, but he'd forced her to leave her Tomboyishness behind when he got her pregnant at fifteen. As her belly grew with Bennie, that part of her died and it never entirely came back. She'd never smelled like sweat, the way Chelsea smelled right then. Maria's scent took on a flavor of domestic things, like baking, dish soap and cheap apple shampoo. If she'd grown up with that independent spirit untarnished, would it have given her the strength to make it through the war?

"Dom?" Chelsea asked. He'd almost dozed off, never answering her question. Was he all right?

"It hurts, but I'm good," he assured, leaving his eyes shut. He couldn't hear anything inside Chelsea's abdomen. Nothing unusual, anyway.

_She needs a good man,_ he thought, the endorphins triggered by the pain causing all sorts of neurons to fire in his brain, skipping him from random thought to random thought. Bringing up idle snatches of memory long since forgotten, and taking him to subjects he'd normally never allow himself to visit.

Dom felt like shit about Wes. The kid had walked up to him and asked permission to take Chelsea out. Why didn't he dig deeper? If Chelsea was his daughter, wouldn't he have taken a harder look at any man looking to court her? He'd let a token, old-fashioned gesture distract him from what was really important. Keeping her safe from psychos. It hadn't seemed like it at the time, but he'd been a predatory influence on Maria once. He'd had the guts to ask for her hand after knocking her up and killing her future, but it didn't change what he'd done to her. Dom should've known better than anyone to be wary of young men with seemingly good intentions. They lived in a world where friendly faces could be far more dangerous than deadly threats because none of them were used to dealing with the former.

And now, without Wes in the picture, the COG was free to force Chelsea to partner with one of her roommates, or go to a farm if she refused.

Dom knew a child might shatter Marcus, and it would take some of the light out of Cole if he had to settle down. _I'm the logical choice,_ Dom realized. It horrified him, but safe in the knowledge that the COG probably wouldn't follow his reasoning when they made their choice, he knew he was the only man in the apartment with the capacity to deal with children. He'd done it before, anyway, and he intended to do it again with Carlo.

Strange how with a knife point buried in his chest, he no longer feared his restoration to fatherhood.

_But what if they do pick me? _Just the thought filled him with raw terror and froze his insides solid. Maria had broken him—or maybe he'd broken her, long ago. After Bennie she fell deep into post-partum depression for a while, and although she seemed to recover, sometimes Dom wondered if she really had. Maybe making her a mother so young had set the building blocks that led to the final, deep depression that had ultimately destroyed her. He'd made her crazy, and she took him right along with her.

If he hadn't picked up the pieces by now he never would. A young woman like Chelsea deserved to be with someone fresh, someone who wanted to be with her and didn't carry around the baggage Dom and Marcus toted. Cole, if he was less of a party hound, or...

Or Baird, if she could stand him. Someone who wouldn't hurt her.

"Baird's going to be pissed," Chelsea said, speaking through the cab's rear window, a wince clear in her voice.

Initially confused, Dom soon realized Marcus must've gone around to the driver's seat. He was probably trying to hotwire the truck. If so, then Chelsea was correct. Baird _would_ be pissed—especially considering the hack job Marcus would make of it.

"Maybe next time he'll think before running off half-cocked with his keys," Marcus grumbled in response, and Dom could hear the subtle, frustrated undercurrent in his friend's voice.

"Should we call Baird or Bernie on the comm.?" Chelsea asked after a long moment without any evidence of success on the horizon.

"They weren't wearing them." The mask had slammed back into place. The same old tired resolve hid Marcus's fear from view. He was definitely frustrated with his task, but Dom sensed it went even deeper than that. Dom couldn't put his finger on it.

The engine sputtered, like it was trying to turn over and couldn't quite do it. And then it did, revving to life.

"You really can do anything," Chelsea marveled, letting her arm rest inside the open window to hold her steady while the truck pulled out into the street. She used her legs to keep Dom from sliding around the truck bed and he was grateful for it. Staying perfectly still wasn't much of a respite, but it was the only one he had.

"Guess so," Marcus responded, his voice dead. He was intent on getting to his destination. Fiercely focused on it, in fact.

Chelsea sighed in dramatic fashion. "Well, that's a relief. You don't know how I've fretted, Marcus. It's kept me up nights, thinking the COG might order me to bear your children even though you can't hotwire for shit."

The joke fell on deaf ears. Tense silence followed, and Dom felt as much as he heard Chelsea sigh, this time for real.

"He's really going to be okay, Marcus," she said in earnest. "I know a guy who runs a clean practice. I promise I won't leave him for a second unless I'm sure he's out of danger."

Marcus remained perfectly silent, no grunt of acknowledgement or anything, and it dawned on Dom. _He's pissed at her. He blames her for this._ It was subtle, but definitely there. He knew Chelsea could sense it too by the defeated way her muscles went slack under his cheek. She was getting good at reading their stoic roommate.

Dom tried to speak, but the effort was too great with the wind flying overhead. He hoped she knew Marcus would get over it. He'd mull it over in that big brain for a little while, and eventually logic would win out over his initial gut-check emotional reaction. In the end, he'd probably beat himself up for blaming her.

Hell, Marcus forgave Hoffman. Getting over this shouldn't be any trouble at all.

_He better fucking get over it. I'm going to have my hands full with Carlo after Gus brings him back and I don't want to deal with his bullshit._

Dom almost laughed, catching himself just in time. He couldn't help it. He'd just remembered what Baird said earlier that day, about him and Marcus always using the buddy system. Earlier the insinuation had pissed him off, but suddenly the concept struck him as funny, because he realized it was true _and_ it was going to have to change. They'd survived the past twenty years living out of each other's pockets, but things would be different now. In some ways, Marcus needed to grow up. Dom needed to stop enabling him, and a teenage son dropping into Dom's lap gave him the perfect excuse to do that.

* * *

Each breath tore out of his lungs in a ragged gasp, but he was too pissed off to care. Wes still had distance on him, but over the past block and a half that distance had slowly, steadily closed.

It wouldn't end well for Wes when Baird finally caught him. The look on Santiago's face, the moment of astonishment preceding cold terror had imprinted on Damon's inner eye, firm and unshakable.

Wes had no idea how to sprint. He went about it all wrong, letting his arms flail and gawking back over his shoulder all the time. With each step his feet hit the ground flat, and if he hadn't gotten such a huge jump in the first place he never would've made it this far.

Baird ran on the balls of his feet, each stride eating ground as fast and efficiently as possible. His arms pumped back and forth in a straight line to minimize air resistance and the faster they went the faster his legs went. He forced each measured breath deep into his lungs, maximizing oxygen exchange. Every machine needed fuel.

Just before Baird overtook him, Wes tried to turn around, wielding his knife. Damon lowered his shoulder, bringing it forcefully up on impact just like any good thrashball player, plowing through the younger man and riding him to the ground.

Broken and bleeding, Wes tried to fend Baird off with the broken knife. He stabbed furiously while Damon reared up on his knees, grabbing Wes's head with both hands and slamming it against the cement.

"That's for Dom, motherfucker!" he snarled, hardly recognizing his own voice.

He'd always known it wouldn't go over well for anyone he caught messing with Cole. Cole he would kill for. Dom and Marcus? Sure, they were his squad mates. Were they his buddies? Baird honestly never spared the subject much thought.

_Guess I've got my answer now._ Because he sure as hell wouldn't slam a man's skull to pieces for just anyone.

He probably would've killed Wes. Would've bounced that skull until it caved in, but Bernie stopped him.

"Blondie!" she huffed, wrapping her arms around his back and putting him into a full-Nelson, literally dragging him back off the unconscious Wes Kendall.

Baird continued to lunge forward, and she had a hell of a time holding him back. He would've shaken off anyone else, but the dumb old coot would probably break a hip if he did that. If she wanted to come along for the ride, that was fine with him.

"Damon, stop! That's an order!" she ordered, hauling back on his neck for all she was worth, and slowing his progress a little. Strange she wasn't choking him out yet. He knew she could.

"You saw what he did," Baird growled, crawling forward on his hands and knees with her clinging to his back.

"Yeah, and if you kill him, it'll be you rotting in a cell at Fort Quierjo."

"So?" he asked. He was almost in reach when she reached down and grabbed his wrist, sweeping that arm out from under him and forcing him to face-plant on the hard sidewalk. She pinned him down with a knee on the back of his neck.

"So, you're a sorry excuse for a grandchild. I want some real ones," she informed him sourly, winded from the effort of restraining him. "Lots and lots of blonde grandchildren who will ask all sorts of annoying questions. Figure if I start on them earlier than I found you, I might be able to save them from developing oversized egos to fit their oversized brains."

Baird groaned indignantly. His cheek was smashed against the cement and his neck was killing him. He did stop struggling. Damn Mataki and her bony knees.

Bernie sighed when he relaxed. "Because God knows I'll kick the bucket first if I wait on Cole," she added.

"You are such a hypocrite," he grumbled.

"Yes. Yes, I am," she admitted. "But I'm also older than you, wiser than you, and I outrank you, boy. Besides, Victor made me swear off vengeful killings."

Baird managed a noise of disgust. "Victor?"

Mataki rose, lifting her knee off his neck and giving him a hand to his feet. "Oh, get over yourself. You know we're together, and 'Hoffman' doesn't work for me in the bedroom." She paused a moment to briskly brush the dust off the front of his shirt. That was probably the closest he'd ever get to an apology from her for using brute force on him.

Good to know she didn't enjoy smacking him around just for kicks. She actually felt bad about it—sometimes, anyway.

"That doesn't mean I need any reminders," Baird grumbled, walking a bit gingerly with her down the street, back toward the alley where they'd left everyone else behind to deal with the fallout. He had a fair amount of road rash on his knees. Funny how he hadn't even noticed getting it when he tackled Wes.

They slowly put distance between themselves and the small crowd that had slowly started to form. A few trickling passersby were stepping around Wes's downed form, perhaps wondering if he actually needed assistance or was just one of the many casualties of too much booze and a bar fight to boot.

"If you think my sex life is disturbing, just wait until you see a baby born," Mataki teased. Now she was really getting carried away with the whole thing. "Especially your own."

"That's not anywhere close to a done deal," he pointed out, just as much to calm his own nerves as to tell her off.

Bernie smacked him on the shoulder, putting on a half smile. "Oh, come on, Blondie. Let an old woman dream. Now let's see. Would you prefer your first progeny be a boy or a girl?"

"You're really not going to let this go, are you?"

"Blondie, I hate to break it to you, but watching you blush and get your panties all in a bunch every time I bring it up makes it well worth my while. Lord knows I've prayed for this day to come."

Baird snorted. "In what church?"

Normally she would've snapped back at him for being impertinent, but instead she just smiled and asked if he thought she should try to take up knitting. She was a fair hand at sewing and repairing clothes, why not expand out into baby blankets?

It took a great deal of effort not to brain himself during the walk back.

* * *

Doctor Rauphlin was at his dinner table with his elderly wife when Chelsea knocked on his door. At her request, he came downstairs and opened up the small clinic tucked beneath his living quarters. The COG had given him the building in exchange for his retirement. The space used to be a restaurant before the war. Now the stainless countertop in the kitchen served as an operating table. Probably the most sterile operating room in the city.

Rauphlin started to clean Dom up, shooing them all out while he worked—to minimize contamination. Chelsea helped the doctor scrub in before leaving the kitchen. She'd worked with Rauphlin once or twice at various clinics in the city. She knew he ran a meticulously clean shop. He'd be Dom's best chance to get through this without developing an infection. And although he was old, Rauphlin had been one of the best trauma surgeons in the COG. Compared to an average day in his O.R. during the war, Dom's injury looked about as serious as a splinter.

Terri refused a ride home. She lived within a couple blocks, and she seemed determined to risk the walk.

"Let me know how he is tomorrow, all right?" she requested of Chelsea.

Exhausted, Chelsea could only nod, wincing a bit at the hug she received from the other woman in parting.

Terri approached Marcus, arms extended. He visibly bristled, but she'd have none of it. "Come on, now. I sat on your chest for almost an hour tonight. You be a man and bear it. It's not just for you. It's for your friend, too. He taught me so much."

He bore it—barely. Accepting, if not returning, the gesture. Not even Bernie tried to press hugs on Marcus, and any other time the sight would've been comical. Terri didn't seem to mind. She wrapped her long arms around his shirtless torso, patted him on the back a few times and then let go.

The bell on the door jingled when Terri swept outside, and then she was gone.

Chelsea leaned against the counter, next to the old cash register. For the second time that night, she felt Marcus's hand against the small of her back.

"You're bleeding," he informed her. When she twisted around to look, she felt dried blood crack and flake off her bare skin. The two of them were quite a sight. Neither of them had a shirt, and both their fronts were streaked with Dom's blood.

"I thought he punched me," she grumbled, defensive.

Marcus bent her over, pressing her front down on the counter so he could look more closely in the overhead light. "Damn it, Chelsea. Why didn't you say anything?"

"What the hell do you care?" she asked, overcome by a wash of despair so strong it felt like an ice pick stabbing her in the heart.

He didn't answer. She hadn't really expected him to. Honestly, she didn't want his forgiveness right now. It would all be easier knowing he blamed her for what happened. He'd told her to quit playing with fire, and he'd been right. The whole thing had exploded in her face, and Dom was the casualty.

"I told you to kick me out." Her eyes watered up, not all of it from the sharp stinging in the vicinity of her left kidney. Some of it came from hurt pride, and a lot of it from sorrow over the trouble she'd caused. "I never wanted to hurt him."

Marcus's examination of her backside was careful, thorough and steady. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up in response to the feel of his calloused touch.

"Did you give Kendall that black eye?" Marcus asked, his gravely voice a bit softer than usual.

Biting her lower lip, Chelsea nodded, her eyes squinting as they filled to the brim with tears.

"Did he deserve it?"

"I should've killed him!" she choked out, the tears finally falling from their perch on her lower eyelids. Throat tight, her next breath came as a shuttering gasp.

They fell into silence. She cried; sobbing against her forearm with her upper half still spread out on the counter. She was cold without a shirt.

"When the Doc's done with Dom, get that looked at," Marcus ordered. His touch disappeared, and his voice sounded across-the-room distant. She could just image him standing by the door to the kitchen with his arms crossed over his chest, like a guard dog. He didn't know how to deal with her when she cried. That was clearly Dom's department, and Chelsea suspected neither Marcus nor Baird really had a clue what to do about it.

She didn't blame them, because she didn't know what to do about it either. It seemed like it had happened to her too often lately. She'd never cried so much on her own—but she'd never really had any happy moments, either.

Trying hard to put a sock in it, she bit down hard on her lip, hoping the pain would allow her to focus and collect herself. Inside the kitchen, she could hear Dom occasionally groan in pain. Rauphlin would've given him a local anesthetic and sedative, but just cleaning the wound would be excruciating. Broken ribs hurt, period. So did stab wounds, no matter how shallow.

It was terrible to hear, but she forced herself to listen. Her efforts to stem her crying went to hell, and her insides started to rip apart like she'd been turned inside out and thrown in a blender. A stream of silent tears and snot mixed with the blood coating the crook of her arm. She was a mess, but she didn't care. Her shoulders shook with each sob.

Eventually this nightmare of an evening had to end, right?

Where the hell was Baird anyway?

* * *

_AN: Hope you all enjoyed the installment. Thanks again to everyone for reading. Doubly thanks for feedback. Had a lot going on this chapter so I'm pretty excited about the response to it. Let me know what you guys thought about it;-)_


	27. Chapter 27

_AN: I noticed my chapter length has gotten ridiculously long. The last was something like 8,000+ words. So, for the sake of updating more often, I've decided to try shortening my chapters. And hurray for 200 reviews! You don't know how happy you've all made me. I swear, getting that review alert message is better than Christmas.  
_

* * *

Trudging back toward the rec center, Cole heaved a deep sigh. He'd lost Carlo in the dark, twisting alleyways after chasing him for blocks. Running head-long without any apparent care for his own safety, the boy had disappeared into the shadows of the city without a trace, and she harbored him jealously. Cole had speed on the kid, but he didn't know this part of town. The switchbacks and dead ends were ridiculous, and most of the buildings were abandoned. Carlo could've slipped into any of them. He could be anywhere. He might be tracking Cole.

Cole wasted too much precious time chasing peripheral glimpses of his quarry. By the time he finally started to case the neighborhood, like a Gear hunting an enemy contact, it was too late. Carlo found some hole to crawl into, and no amount of cajoling would bring him out.

If Santiago survived, he'd be devastated, and Cole carried that sorrowful weight all the way back to the gym.

What happened in that alley anyway? It seemed like he only chased Carlo a little way down the street, around the block and back, and a whole mess of shit had gone down in the meantime.

_Can't leave them alone for a second,_ Cole thought, shaking his head. He'd done a mental headcount several times, and in the fuzzy snapshot of that moment when he realized Santiago had gotten fucked up, he couldn't account for Baird, or Boomer-Lady. Marcus and Shrink-Lady were there, helping Dom. But where were the others? What happened to them?

Slivers of icy fear worked through him when he imaged some of the possibilities. No matter how many times he told that boy to stay out of trouble, Baird always found a way to step in it. So much for his hope that Damon would take more care out on his own, without the protective blanket of Cole's shadow resting over him.

Rounding the last corner on the west side of the rec center, Cole was greeted by the welcome sight of Baird pacing a rut in the concrete and Boomer-Lady lounging against the alley wall, her arms folded over her chest and standing as still as a predator on the hunt.

Baird's eyes lit up when he caught sight of his friend. "Damn, am I glad to see you, man. Where's my truck?"

Un-amused, Cole replied, "Good to see you too, baby. _Alive._"

In all honesty, it was a relief to find Baird amped up and socially inept as ever. Cole had a too-vivid memory from his Sigma days of Baird sitting in the middle of a dirt road with his back against one of the tires of their Centaur, his finger resting across the trigger guard of the lancer he no longer had the strength to lift, and his face—the look he'd had on his face would haunt Cole's nightmares forever. Baird had been white. Not pale, not grey—white. White and still with his green eyes staring off into forever, dull and unblinking. A thin line of blood found its way out of his ear and down his face, dripping steadily into his armor. Beneath Baird, a crimson pool had started to form in the dust. He'd been barely breathing.

All that fight Baird always carried around and all the rest of the piss and vinegar had gone right out of him, and for a few terrible hours, Cole truly thought he'd lose his friend.

Damon did pull through, miraculously, and ever since Cole had gauged his buddy's health by the size of the chip he carried.

Baird rolled his eyes toward Bernie in response to Cole's unsolicited Mother-Henning. "Man, I don't need _two _moms."

Holding up one very large hand in surrender and placation, Cole went on, speaking plainly. "I'm just sayin', baby." Cole knew Baird saw through the 'Train' act. Baird also knew it was time to pay attention when Cole let the act drop.

"Yeah, yeah. Next time I'll call home and check in, all right?" For Baird, that was a sincere apology. Which meant it had to be followed up by a snarky, "I swear, Cole, you're getting more like..." Damon trailed off suddenly, like he'd gotten punched in the gut mid-sentence.

Cole could guess who he'd been about mention. "How is Dom?" he asked, grim.

"My guess is they took him to a hospital," Bernie put in. "Unfortunately neither of us has a comm and it seems our bags were collected for us."

"Right along with my truck," Baird mumbled. He glared down at the ring of keys he held, flipping through them one by one with his thumb.

Cole exchanged a meaningful glance with Bernie over Damon's head and, if he guessed right, they were both thinking the same thing. Baird had a hell of a lot more on his mind than the well-being of his pickup, but nothing else could make it through the bluster.

Placing a finger to his ear, Cole said, "This is Cole. You got ears on, boss man?"

Static hit the line and then Marcus's voice, "Roger, Cole. What's your twenty?"

"I'm back at the gym. I got Mataki and Baird here. How's Santiago?"

Silence. The pause lasted a beat, and then another. Pressing the comm further in his ear, Cole could hear the dull thud of his own heartbeat marking the time.

"You didn't find him, did you?" Fenix finally asked.

Why did he get the feeling he'd never live this shit down? Getting outmaneuvered by a thirteen-year-old was bad enough, but on top of that he'd let down his sergeant and his friend. _Lord knows Santiago don't deserve any more bad in this lifetime._ Anyway. Time to report the facts and face the music.

"I'm real sorry, Marcus. I lost him." Usually Marcus was a good sergeant. He knew bad news came with the job and didn't hold it against his guys. But this was Dom, and that changed the game. Regardless, Cole wouldn't make any excuses. He felt terrible about it, and Marcus should know him well enough by now to know that.

There was another pause.

"Listen," Cole said. "I can stay out here and keep lookin'..."

"He knows the way home," Fenix said, sharp and final. As always, when the going got tough, Marcus soldiered onward, giving out orders to keep everyone else on track. "Ferria's getting stitched up right now. When she's done here I'll send her to you in Baird's truck."

"You never said if Dom's all right, boss-man," Cole reminded.

"He's out, but he'll be all right. The rest of you should go home and get some sleep tonight."

_Right. Sleep. Fenix sure as hell won't get any of that tonight._

Cole glanced sideways at Baird. The blond was a wreck. He'd obviously been in a fight—a dark shadow had already begun to spread beneath one of his eyes—and he was bleeding from the right shoulder, although he didn't seem to notice.

"I think maybe Baird could use a little doctoring himself before he hangs it up." That earned him a cool look from Baird, and an amused snort from Mataki.

"I'm fine," Baird grumbled. If he were a dog, his ears would be laid back flat against his head, and he'd be growling with head lowered, teeth bared.

"I'll bet he's thrilled you said so," Marcus said, caustic. "Unless you can drag him over here, he'll have to make do with the medic."

"You think Shrink-Lady'll be up for it?" That was a lot to put on a girl, especially once Baird got a look at his truck all torn apart and hotwired.

"I'm sure she'll put him through his paces." That sounded oddly evasive for Marcus. "She's just finishing up here. You'll see her in twenty."

"Wilco. Cole out."

"Is Dom all right?" Bernie asked when he was finished.

Cole shrugged. "Marcus said he'll be okay."

"What about my truck?" Baird asked.

"Shrink-Lady's bringing it over right now."

Baird heaved a sigh, kicking a stray pebble with his boot. After a few more minutes of pacing, he made his way over to the doorway into the gym, opening it up and closing it, testing the weight of the resistance of the overhead arm. It was sticky, difficult to open and close. Reaching up, Baird explored the assembly attached to the door by feel.

Cole made his way over, leaning with one shoulder against the brick and watching Damon work his magic.

"My multi-tool was in my bag," Baird commented. "This got torqued down too tight, and now it can't rotate properly." He strained upward, trying to loosen the offending nut with his fingers.

"Mmm hmm," Cole commented, folding his arms when a cool breeze kicked up. Damon got like this sometimes after a scare. Manic and fidgety.

Baird wasn't having a lot of luck loosening the nut, but he kept trying, his attention fading in and out.

"He took a knife for me, Cole," Baird said after a while, his voice lowered so Mataki couldn't hear. "Straight to the fucking chest."

Cole didn't speak. If Dom had been the one standing here in front of him, and they'd been talking about Baird, then Cole could've said something to assuage the man's guilt. Something like, '_You would've done the same for him, baby.'_ And Dom would probably nod a little and take some small amount of comfort, because deep down he'd know it was true.

Baird, on the other hand, wouldn't take that well. He didn't have much faith in his own character. Would he have taken a knife for Dom? Maybe, maybe not. He didn't have that instinctual protector vibe like Santiago. Something as quick as a stabbing might pass him by in a blur without provoking an immediate reaction. He might get caught on his heels, torn between watching a buddy get knifed and that overwhelming sense of self-preservation. There was a primary difference between Dom and Baird. Dom had done some living in his day, and Baird—he never had an opportunity.

Cole just stood quietly and listened, but his friend didn't say any more. When Chelsea pulled up in the truck, they locked the door to the gym and trooped out of the alley to the street.

Cole noticed the sight of his truck didn't bring Baird any cheer. Lost in thought, he hardly seemed to notice it. Pretty funny, considering how he'd griped after it.

Slapping his friend on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth, Cole couldn't help but smile a little on the inside. _You're a better man than you know, baby._

* * *

"Think maybe I'll walk home," Cole said, glancing up at the stars and taking a deep breath in through his nose, his wide nostrils flaring. "It's a nice night."

On Chelsea's right, Bernie heaved a defeated sighed. She'd just strapped herself into the passenger seat, ready to be driven home, but she popped the buckle on her seatbelt and opened the passenger door.

"All right, Cole," the older woman declared when her boots hit the ground. She walked around to pull her bag out of the back of the truck. "Let's go find the little bastard."

"He ain't a cat, Boomer-Lady. If we find him, you won't be able to skin him."

Bernie harrumphed. "We'll just have to see about that."

Chelsea moved over into the vacated passenger seat, giving herself a little more breathing room, and crossing her arms over her chest against the cold night air.

Baird finally admitted defeat with the mess of wires beneath the dash, shoving them away to be dealt with later. "Have fun looking for the brat," Baird said to Cole out the driver's side window. "Call me if you change your mind."

The two searchers waved at them in farewell, and Damon pulled away from the curb. They travelled down the road in silence, Baird working the crank to roll up his window.

"You look like you're freezing. Get over here," Damon said after a few blocks, lifting his injured right arm so she could scoot under it.

Chelsea hesitated. _After what happened tonight, do I deserve to be happy? _Finally she slid across the bench seat. From the way Baird gingerly lifted his arm and draped it across her shoulders, she suspected the injury had started to stiffen up the surrounding muscles, but it didn't stop him from pulling her in close to his side, enveloping her. He'd occasionally have to let her go to shift gears, and since she had to straddle the stick on the floor his hand would always brush her knee in passing.

"What happened to your shirt, anyway?" he asked after putting the truck into forth gear. They had some highway in front of them so they'd be able to cruise for a while.

"I used it as a compress to stop the bleeding," Chelsea replied matter-of-factly. Even though the cold kept registering, the reason for it continued to slip her mind. Her shirt was a bloody rag now, probably shoved into a trash can along with the remains of Marcus's shirt. Dom had fresh bandages on when she left him.

Baird nodded. "Yup. I'm pretty sure I've never heard that one before. At least not on the first date."

Chelsea smirked, her eyes hooded with sleepiness. The local anesthetic the doctor had used on her made her drowsy, and Damon's warmth lulled her toward sleep. "You scared the hell out of me, you know," she said, her head resting against his collar bone. "I had no idea what happened to you."

It would've killed her if anything had happened to him. She'd already checked out his shoulder and found the cuts superficial. A few stitches each and he'd hardly have any scarring. Even something so small made her stomach turn with guilt. If she'd left last night, none of this would've happened.

"You didn't get those stitches playing it safe," Baird retorted, giving her a level glance out of the corner of his eye.

_I won't be slipping much past him._

"Touché," she allowed, letting out a deep breath and settling in closer, her breath tickling the fine hairs on his neck. "I'm glad you're okay," she said softly, slipping her right arm around his ribcage. He stiffened for a moment at the intimate contact, and then relaxed into it.

"Let's get cleaned up at my place," he said. "You can patch me up, and then I'll drive you home."

Suppressing a yawn, Chelsea nodded, settling in against his side and letting herself doze off.

Baird parked his truck in an underground garage beneath his apartment building and the two of them made their way up the stairs to the third story, Damon's right arm still slung over Chelsea's shoulders while they trekked upward. Each of them carried a duffle bag.

"Where are you from?" Chelsea asked, slipping her left hand into one of the back pockets on Baird's cargos. As she'd suspected, he did indeed have a very nice, firm ass, and those muscles flexed under her hand with each stair step.

"Are you familiar with Hell?" Baird asked. "Because I'm pretty sure it was close to there."

She waited, and after a minute he relented. He had started this question exchange, after all. He'd asked her where all she'd been stationed during her short time as a 'fully trained' medic, and she'd given him the short list. Jacinto briefly, then Vectes, and then back to a camp on the main land when her mother was transferred with the Engineering Corp. Her mother was moved to the Santino VA hospital several months before Chelsea was given the boot, and so she'd settled here, close to her last remaining relative.

"I'm from a college town called Migelo. Back when it still existed, Jacinto U had a Thrashball rival called Regnier College about three hours north of Jacinto—Regnier being the college that made Migelo a 'college town.' That's where I was born and subsequently raised—if 'raised' is what you want to call it."

"What would you call it?" Chelsea asked, giving his butt a squeeze.

Baird's breath audibly hitched, and he lost focus for a moment. "I'd call it survival of the fittest," he finally managed when he remembered how to use his voice. He tried to be subtle in adjusting himself, but the action didn't escape her notice.

Knowing she had such an effect on him still made her blush, but it also brought a scant devilish smile to her lips.

"You know we're going to have to tell him," Baird said, suddenly solemn. "Probably tomorrow."

Chelsea balked at the idea. "That seems like a lot to throw onto a guy," she opined.

"Yeah," Damon agreed. "But I'm not going to do this behind their backs. Don't get me wrong—if any of them have objections, I'm going to tell them to shove it."

"Even Dom?"

"Especially Dom," he confirmed pointedly. "I had a front row seat to the entire Dominic Santiago tragic love saga. Then, for an encore I got to watch Marcus Fenix's blunders in dating. It's my friggin' turn."

Fishing through his bag, Baird found his keys and unlocked the door of his apartment, letting them inside.

Immediately, Chelsea could see why Baird had insisted on getting his own place. The apartment wasn't exactly messy, just cluttered. Several ongoing projects were sitting on different work benches around the generous living area, waiting to be finished. Tools were arranged neatly on pegs nailed into cork backboards on the walls. Even though there was meticulous order present, Dom still would've gone nuts in this environment. He liked things to be squared away and complete. Chelsea could see how their individual tendencies could create friction between the two men if they lived together for an extended period of time.

Besides, living alone, Baird probably had three times the amount of room to work. With a bench on every wall of the room, each representing a specific specialty—welding, electronics, mechanics—and Chelsea could only wonder at the things he was working on. Some looked fascinating and complex. Others were simpler.

"Is this a fuel tank?" Chelsea asked, eyeing the large metal tank sitting on the bench that appeared to be dedicated to welding and patching based on the tools hung above it and the tall gas cylinders next to the bench.

"Yeah," Baird said, coming to stand next to her. "I polished off a few spots of rust on the outer layer, but it needs to be patched—at least until I can find a replacement at the scrap yard. I've got the rest of the car on blocks down in the garage."

Raising one eyebrow, she asked, "You're building a car?"

Baird shoved his hands in his pockets, clearing his throat. All of a sudden he looked uncomfortable in his own skin. "I figured Cole could use it," he said, almost reluctant to admit doing his friend such a generous favor. "He's going to be on the road a lot, and it'll be better if he has his own wheels."

Chelsea smiled tiredly, feeling subtle tugs at her heartstrings. She slipped an arm around Damon's waist. "That's a pretty nice thing to do."

Baird grunted. "Don't say that until you see how small the car is. He'll have to get greased up every time he gets in."

Chelsea smiled at the mental image, content for the moment to stand with him in silence.

"You should get cleaned up," Baird finally said.

Inching up on her toes, Chelsea placed a quick kiss on his lips, letting her fingertips rest against his sternum for balance before she left him, once again shouldering her duffel and heading for the bathroom. She glanced back once and found him watching her. He didn't look away when she caught him.

Shutting the bathroom door behind her, Chelsea sighed.

It was good to feel wanted, even if she didn't deserve it.


	28. Chapter 28

_AN: Yes, this update is real. Hurray! Also, keep an eye out for a flashback about mid-way through the chapter. I decided we need to take a trip back in time, at least for a moment, just to keep things moving. Let me know what you think;-)_

* * *

"How did you get those?" Chelsea asked, nodding to the jagged white scars on Baird's shoulder. She'd finished sewing together his fresh wounds and moved on to wrapping clean gauze around his bicep, taping on the bandage.

Clean and wearing fresh sweats, they were sitting at the foot of Damon's bed. Chelsea had found out early in her career as a medic than even the most grizzled front liners should be seated when receiving needlework, preferably somewhere soft, like on a bed or couch, just in case they fainted.

Baird could take a needle, but his cheeks were still pale from enduring stitches with no anesthetic. His color was slowly returning and Chelsea figured getting him talking might keep his mind off the stinging in his arm. He didn't seem overly eager to talk about his past, but he'd given her a small glimpse earlier when he told her about his home town. Why not press her luck?

Without looking, Baird reached over with his opposite hand, his fingers automatically finding the scars.

"That one still hurts sometimes," he admitted.

The gauze slid through her fingers and around his thick arm. The bandage neared completion. "Did you get it during the war?"

Baird slowly shook his head, unusually subdued. "Before. When I was a kid."

"It's pretty jagged. What'd you do? Get caught on a barbed wire fence?"

He gave her a look out of the corner of his eye. "Before I tell you, promise me you won't hop on any pity trains. When I was a kid I needed _help_, and all I got was pity. It still annoys the shit out of me. That's why I don't talk about it. It took Cole over a decade to drag it out of me, and if he hadn't done it I wouldn't be telling you anything now."

Holding the bandage on with one hand, Chelsea tore off a piece of medical tape with her teeth. "That's fair. But if we continue to go down this road, you should know it would really piss me off if I asked you a question about your past and you refused to tell me. I'd understand if you _couldn't_ tell me, but a refusal for the sake of maintaining your manly honor would probably earn you a punch in the face."

Damon considered that for a moment. "Did you tell Kendall everything?" he finally asked.

That quick flip of the coin was a little more shrewdness than she liked to see in a guy.

"No," Chelsea admitted, fiddling with the tape. She was having a hard time getting it to stick properly to the gauze. "I never told him I don't want kids—at least not for ten years. I didn't tell him I've killed six people. And I never told him I'm a virgin." She didn't even blush at admitting it, although it was a near thing.

He perked up at hearing that last one. "You're a virgin?" Baird asked, clearly skeptical.

"Is that a problem?" Somehow she managed to keep perfectly level when she asked that question.

"It's not a problem, it's just—unusual. I'm pretty sure I saw a fourteen-year-old girl dragging her kid around the other day. It seems like they're popping them out younger and younger these days. I mean, who knew Santiago was just ahead of his time? These days he'd be considered an old man fathering a kid at sixteen."

Chelsea sighed. No matter how much the COG wanted to put motherhood on her horizon, she couldn't do it. She wouldn't. Not because they said so.

"Chelsea," Damon brought her attention fully back to him. Apparently he'd misinterpreted her sudden silence. "Seriously, it doesn't bother me. I'm not really sure what the hell we're jumping into, but you're in the driver's seat. Just don't expect me to know what I'm doing without some guidance. They don't make a technical manual for this shit, and believe it or not I do need a manual for some things."

She'd have to think on that some, and figure out if she found it reassuring or terrifying. For the moment she was too tired to be afraid any more. Tomorrow after work they would have to see Dom. Maybe articulating it would cause things to fall into place.

If only she could have a conversation with her mother about this. That would help so much.

"So how'd you get those?" Chelsea asked, motioning once more to his scars.

"My brother tried to hack off my arm with a cleaver." He said it so easily she almost thought he was kidding at first, but none of his sarcastic tells showed through. No raised eyebrow, no wise-guy attitude.

"Really?" she asked. "Why?"

Baird shrugged with his good shoulder. "He was pissed off at me. I got one over on him that morning. When I came home, Chris got some of his buddies to grab me and they held me down on the table while he tried to chop me up."

It took a conscious effort to keep her mouth from falling open. "What did you do?" she asked.

"I kicked him in the balls, then I kicked him in the face when he bent over, and I bit one of the guys holding me, and then I ran like hell."

"Holy shit." She could tell already it was going to be hard to keep her promise to not feel sorry for him. Her insides ached knowing she couldn't do anything. When he was young, someone he should've been able to trust did a truly terrible thing to him, and she couldn't go back in time and stop it, or tell the boy he'd once been that someday he'd meet people who would care for him.

That she would care for him.

"So I guess you're not very fond of guys coming at you with a knife, huh?" she asked, thinking of Wes with many echoing pangs of guilt.

"I guess you could say that."

"And you almost had to go through that again tonight because I let Wes fool me," Chelsea concluded. "I wanted to be with someone so much I didn't see there was something wrong. My friends paid for that mistake. Dom did, and you almost did too."

Baird nudged her arm. "Don't do that to yourself. You were too close to see it. Trust me, if Cole went nuts and started offing people in his spare time, I'd be the last one to notice."

Unconvinced, Chelsea rewarded his effort to cheer her with a wan smile. Leaning forward, she gave him a short kiss, just the barest touch of her lips to his. It still felt really good to do that.

Slipping his good arm around her waist, Damon pulled her awkwardly across his lap, giving her a real kiss. Sighing through her nose, Chelsea placed both hands on his shoulders, never breaking away while she gingerly moved to straddle his lap.

Neither of them were expert kissers, but a little passion mixed with a large dose of enthusiasm went a long way. Just like earlier in the evening, when everything else melted away and left the two of them behind, all her worries became a little more distant. After everything, this felt more right than anything ever had. It felt safe.

They were dangling at the end of a very tenuous thread of control.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked when they paused for breath. "I know this is going to sound stupid, and maybe a little lame. I just—I know terrible things are bound to happen to me, and while I have control over it I want my first time to be something good." She ran her fingers affectionately over his prickly buzzed hair. "Something I won't regret."

She felt every muscle in his body tense beneath her, and the feeling was impressive. Just the thought of becoming intimately familiar with those muscles bunching and relaxing sent a tiny tremor ran down her spine, leaving goose-bumps in its wake. Her fingertips told her the hair on the back of his neck had stood straight up. The idea was just as electric for him as it was for her.

Baird withdrew momentarily. She'd started to realize he had an internal processing space. Like a computer, he could snap off calculations instantly, like it didn't require any thought at all. Some of the questions she'd thrown at him tonight required a little more chugging out of that mental engine, and so the pauses were noticeable.

"Are you sure you wouldn't regret being with me?" he finally asked. "I mean, I figured we could grab dinner a few times first. Maybe then Dom wouldn't shank me with that Commando pig sticker he always carries around."

Chelsea half smiled, giving him a kiss that left both of them breathless.

"All right," Damon said, once he'd finally collected his brain again. He deftly shifted her on his lap. "You've convinced my dick, as I'm sure you're already aware. However, there's still the issue of protection. I don't have any." He quirked an eyebrow at her and waited for her answer to that.

Chelsea felt her heart sink. Oh, well. It was probably for the best anyway. As much as she'd like to grab a snapshot, frame it, and stick on her mental wall for the sake of future enjoyment, maybe it would be better to wait.

"My back's sore anyway," she admitted. They were both pretty beat up. She'd just picked gravel out of both of Baird's knees. In retrospect, the act itself probably wouldn't be very enjoyable considering they both had fresh stitches.

"You sure?" Baird asked, cocking his head a little to the side.

That nearly stopped her heart. What was he offering? "I don't want to get pregnant," she blurted. Just the idea of that possibility reduced her to a fragile, trembling mess, and the strength of the negative reaction shocked her.

"Whoa, calm down. I don't want you to, either," he said, holding up his hands to placate her. "Trust me, that's the _last_ thing I want right now."

Chelsea sighed. She just needed sleep. Tomorrow there would be so much to sort out.

Baird jerked his head toward the bedroom door. "Come on. Hop off and I'll take you home."

Chelsea didn't move, glancing at the large, welcoming bed extending out beyond where they sat. "Could I sleep here?" she asked softly. Was that too much to ask? Just the idea of traveling back to the apartment and spending the night there alone if Cole didn't return struck her as exhausting, and depressing.

Damon considered for a moment, seeming to go back and forth for before he finally said, "Um, yeah. I guess. Get under the covers. I'll be there in a minute."

Chelsea smirked. "You're not going to sleep on the couch and let me have the bed?"

"I don't have a couch. Even if I did, I'm not that much of a gentleman," he informed her, giving her hips a squeeze before dumping her off his lap.

"Marcus let me have his bed," she pointed out. "He slept on the floor."

"That's because he's a pussy," Damon said, heaving onto his feet. "If he'd get over himself he'd still have a chick in his bed every night."

She was sleepier than she'd thought. Even crawling the short distance across the bed felt like it drained the energy right out of her.

"You going to make it?" Baird asked, making his way toward the bathroom.

"Yes," she insisted, finally making it to the pillows. Pulling back the sheets, she slipped under them, warm in her over-sized t-shirt and sweatpants. She had extra clothes in her bag, but when Baird offered her some of his, she'd accepted.

She had a feeling he'd never loaned his clothes to anyone before, with Cole being a possible outlier—assuming anything Damon owned actually fit the former Thrashball player.

Besides, she had a feeling he secretly enjoyed seeing her flop around in his shirt. He'd suggested dryly that she forego the sweatpants all together.

She fully intended to wait for him to return, but the second her head hit the pillow, she was out.

* * *

Baird took his time in the bathroom. That girl did a hell of a number on him, and he couldn't just shrug it off. It really was incredible, considering he'd nearly gotten stabbed and then stitched up later. There'd been a few others who'd caught his notice over the years, but none quite so potent. Even after he endured searing pain, all she had to do was wiggle her ass against him a little and he was ready to go.

By the time he finished up, she'd already passed out. That was fine. He'd probably do the same the second he laid down next to her. Sleeping next to a warm body would be pretty fucking weird. He'd spent most of his life curling up in dark lonely corners, hoping no one would bother him. Then again, he had spent a decent number of nights out in the open back-to-back with Cole or Rojas or Tanner, without even a camp fire to keep warm because it might give away their location. How different could it be?

_Very different_, his libido reminded. Out in the field with a bunch of guys, his brain had often wandered off to projects he needed to finish, or would like to take on. Lying next to Chelsea, he'd have a hard time thinking about anything other than the fine attributes of that warm female body next to him.

And how much he wished he could roll over and be welcomed into that warmth.

_Shit. She's already killing my efficiency by at least thirty percent._

Silently crossing the bedroom, Baird picked up his jacket and fished through it until he found what he was looking for. Then he walked over to the half-open bedroom window, letting his elbows rest on the sill and leaning out, looking over the new construction popping up all over this part of the city. Apartment complexes identical to his would soon dominate the area, but it wouldn't be enough. Human nature had kicked into overdrive, and it would be a long time before housing caught up with the booming population.

Pulling the string of unopened square packages out straight, Baird recalled exactly how much he'd paid for them just a week ago. They were damn expensive, and now he didn't know what to do with them. What if Chelsea found them? He could hide them, sure, but what if she did discover them? What if she figured out he'd lied to her? He still didn't know quite why he'd done it. To test her? To make damn sure she didn't intend to use him?

Well, she'd passed with flying colors then. She didn't want a kid out of him. She probably didn't know what the hell she wanted, other than to mitigate any future pain she might experience at the hands of some as of yet unknown asshole who might one day finally get the best of her. Even if it did leave him with a nasty case of blue balls, he probably did the right thing turning her down.

Of course, doing the right thing didn't get him off like it seemed to for Fenix and Santiago. He was half tempted to wake her up and make some excuse about forgetting he'd stored them in the fridge. Maybe she'd still be up for a good time.

Glancing over, Damon saw her curled up under the blankets, one arm stretched over the space he'd soon occupy. She was completely out.

With one final sigh, Baird let the condoms slip from his fingers and watched them flip over and over while they fluttered to the sidewalk below. Some lucky bastard would make a hell of a find tonight. Besides, if Chelsea did decide under better circumstances that she wanted him to be her first ride, he'd be far more likely to rock her world if he didn't have to worry about aggravating any injuries or passing out as soon as he finished.

He did have his pride, after all.

After closing the window he made his way over to the bed, lifting the covers and then her arm, slipping in beneath both and pulling her head onto his good shoulder. He sighed, brushing back her hair with his fingertips.

He wasn't a pushover with a woman, but he still enjoyed having one. Glancing over at Chelsea, he spent a minute watching her chest rise and fall with each soft breath. She'd sewed up his arm without batting an eye and she didn't fall apart in a tight spot. Hell, with a little luck he might even teach her how to do some basic mechanic work. She wasn't gifted in that area, but she was apt enough to learn without frustrating him. Unlike most guys, she actually listened and retained.

Even with all his misgivings, Baird had to admit, he enjoyed having this woman in particular.

* * *

_Three years ago, fifteen miles off the coast of Vectes..._

This was her nightmare. Any officer's nightmare.

"Marcus?" She grabbed his face between her hands and she slapped his cheek. She slapped him harder.

Nothing. He was out, maybe dead. Ash from the engine room fire blackened his skin, and he bled from a handful of cuts on his face and neck—metal splinters embedded in flesh after a RPG hit the side of the ship just ten feet from where he'd taken cover to return fire. His armor made it impossible to tell if his chest rose with each breath.

Where the hell did Stranded get RPGs? Why did they wait so long to use them?

Machine gun fire ripped through the air, and an ominous black column rose high above their ship into the formerly blue sky. It would mark their location if Vectes ever realized they were under attack. Or, like blood in the water, it might bring in more Stranded for the kill. If help came too late, that tall pillar would be the only thing left to mark their collective grave site.

Down on one knee next to a bulkhead, Anya took a deep breath, one hand on Marcus's still form. At least she'd never fooled herself. She knew she was green. Getting up to speed for combat had become her mission since Jacinto sank and just like in all her pursuits, she'd pursued it with gusto.

But all the extra PT and drills in the world didn't hold a candle to real field experience. She'd leaned hard on her sergeants, especially on Marcus, and now she had no one to lean on. No one stood between her and the men.

They were her responsibility now.

"Ma'am!" One of the engine room boys, a red-haired kid named Taylor Dunn, took a knee beside her. His face was so black from fighting the fire below deck, she hardly recognized him. He had to scream over the firefight so she could hear. "Ma'am, my father sent me to tell you the fire's under control, but there's no way to salvage the engines. We're taking on water faster than the bilges can pump it out. It'll be slow, but we're going down."

"And the radio?" Anya asked. "Has anyone been able to make it into the wheelhouse to call for help?"

Dunn shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. "No, ma'am! The fire's still burning in there. There won't be anything left when they put it out."

_I'm alone. No mom, no Hoffman, no Marcus, no Command, no Control. What the hell do I do?_

"Do they need you downstairs?" Anya asked the kid. He was at least eighteen and he looked strong enough, especially for a Navy boy. She was surprised he didn't sign up to be a Gear.

"They've got all the pumps manned down below and the fire crew doesn't want me. Unless you give me a rifle, there's nothing I can do but pray, ma'am."

Anya picked up Marcus's lancer. The chainsaw made the thing damn heavy. Her rifle had no bayonet of any kind. She didn't have enough strength in her arms to maintain accuracy while firing a muzzle-heavy weapon.

Dunn accepted the weapon, and she breathed a little easier when he handled it like he knew what he was doing.

"Use that to keep Sergeant Fenix alive," she said. "I need you to stay with him. If we go to the lifeboats, it'll be up to you to make sure he gets off. Are you up to it?"

The kid nodded.

Anya almost asked if he was sure. Marcus weighed a ton in his stocking feet. In armor he weighed closer to ten shit-loads, as he'd so elegantly put it.

_Trust the boy to find a way. _That was her mother's voice.

Giving Dunn one last clap on the back, Anya checked her rifle. She still had more than half a clip. At least that part of her recent training had come in handy. Even in the heat of battle, she could account for every shot she'd taken.

The buzzing of a speedboat's engine off the starboard bow constantly threatened closer before retreating, revving up to a higher pitch every time the driver put the prop over hard to avoid returning fire.

Anya coughed when she moved past an access door to the lower decks with smoke billowing out. Her boots slipped while she hurried along with her head down, and she put a hand on the deck to regain her balance, only to find she'd slipped on a slick of blood.

When she finally gained the aft deck, she found ten men—the remaining three members of Delta squad, four members of Jace Stratton's Alpha Seven, and three green privates from the newly formed Theta Four.

Dom manned the big swivel belt-fed fifty caliber mounted on the deck. With the engine running, the hydraulic turn-table beneath the gun would've given Dom a 180 degree line of fire and he would've made short work of even the most elusive speedboat. But without power, the gun's mounting limited it to a ninety-degree swivel. One speedboat had succumbed, but the rest had adapted to the gun's range, always skirting just beyond the line of fire.

With nine lancers and one hobbled belt-fed aft, and at most two squads on the foredeck, they didn't have nearly enough firepower. The ship's big guns were fixed in place, completely ineffective against close mobile targets. Marcus had been trying to cover those big guns when he went down. Even if they had the spare manpower to get more ordinance topside from the magazine, the guns were probably damaged. It could be suicidal to fire them.

"Anya! Where's Marcus?" Dom called down from the gun platform. He was sighting down the barrel, waiting for one of the boats to forget, just for a second, exactly where that line of fire extended.

"He's down." Her voice almost faltered saying those words.

What would she do without him? Without that hope that maybe, someday...

"What?" Dom called, his head snapping around, fear in his dark eyes. She knew exactly how he felt.

But she couldn't let him lose focus.

"Santiago, take command of Delta One," she ordered.

The panic didn't leave his eyes. She'd sat on his shoulder through dozens of firefights and she'd never seen him lose his cool. Until now. "Where is he?" Dom demanded, turning to jump down from the platform.

She could _not_ let him do that. That gun was covering the other nine Gears firing off the back of the ship. If Dom came down off that gun against her orders, it would show every man on the ship she'd lost control of the situation.

"Don't you dare move off that gun, Santiago!" she screamed over the din of the firefight, shoving him back around. "I will staple your balls to that seat if I have to!"

Whatever he expected to come out of her mouth, that wasn't it. He still appeared shaken, but he stayed at his post.

"I hate to spoil your dinner party, ma'am, but we've got more company!" Baird yelled caustically from where he and Cole were taking cover by the port rail. Apparently he didn't think much of her standing around talking to Dom when they needed someone to lead.

He was right.

"Which side?" Anya shouted back.

"Seven o'clock! It's the biggest fucking yacht I've ever seen and they've got fifteen inch guns mounted on the deck. They're coming around on us and if they get a firing solution, they'll blow us out of the water!"

"Baird, take a squad. Anyone but Cole. You have the artillery. There're only two rounds left and I expect you to make them count. Float those guns before they float us!"

"Wilco." Ducking down, Baird went back and collected the three Theta privates. "Welcome to Sigma, boys. I sure hope you last longer than the last bunch they put me in charge of."

"Santiago. Arrange your men to take out those speedboats with minimal loss of ordinance. Is that clear?" she shouted right in Dom's ear, just to make damn sure he heard her.

A half beat of pause and then, "Yes, ma'am." He wasn't happy about it.

Anya decided she'd care about that if and when they made it home alive. She could afford to be a friend when she was just the messenger passing on orders. When the orders came from her, it became a different ball game for all of them.

She didn't waste another second. It was, "Cole, you're with me," and a moment later their boots pounded the deck, heading for the stairwell to the hold.

* * *

Anya held up one of the life-jackets, studying her handiwork. This part of the hold was cut off from engineering by sealed fire doors, so there was hardly any smoke here in the armory. The stairwell that led to topside was a different story.

Cole poked his head in the door. "They ready, ma'am," he said.

She only had four life-jackets, but it would have to do.

"Did they give you any trouble?" she asked.

Cole shook his head, a ghost of an amused smile on his face. No one in their right mind gave Cole any trouble. "No, ma'am."

The freighter wasn't just transporting supplies from the mainland. It was also transporting six Stranded prisoners Gorasnaya had imprisoned for murder and piracy. Six prisoners the Stranded pirates apparently wanted back.

Anya finished patching the interior of the final life-jacket and then folded her field knife and grabbed all four of the orange jackets, letting Cole lead the way into the corridor where they waited.

With Cole's bulk and lancer at their backs, the six men made their way up to the main deck, too busy coughing and sputtering to make a dash for it. Their eyes were all watering to the point of tears.

"You," Anya ordered, shoving a life jacket at one of them. "Take this. Jump off over there." She shoved him toward a corner of the ship.

Once they understood what was happening, the Stranded prisoners were more than happy to cooperate. They didn't question her sending them off different corners of the ship. They took the life-jackets offered, two of them found a buddy to hang onto, and they all jumped off. They swam in different directions, and soon the pirates on the speedboats figured out their game and started picking them up, dividing the effort to make it go faster.

"Cease fire!" Anya shouted. "Let them pick up their men! Focus on the gun ship!"

A muffled 'thump' signaled Baird's new crew firing off a round of artillery, and a moment later the over-sized yacht got hammered by fire in spite of its efforts to evade the shells raining down out of the blackened sky. The rear half of the Stranded ship got pounded through the surf, quickly dragging the rest of the ship down with it.

Anya patted Damon on the back herself. "Nice shooting, corporal," she said, sticking to cover beside him on the starboard foredeck.

"Yeah," he agreed grimly, turning skeptical green eyes on her. "Now what? Those speeders aren't leaving, and they're free to take pot shots at will. They're probably calling in reinforcements to finish us off. With all due respect, _ma'am_, you just let our leverage swim away."

This was her nightmare. Holding the reins in an impossible situation with no recourse, no way out. No way to preserve her humanity.

Anya glanced over at Marcus's prone form. He'd started to come around at Dunn's prodding. He was still lying on the deck, but his eyes were open. Those cold, pale eyes that always seemed to look straight through her. He would never forgive her. She doubted things would ever be the same between them if she crossed this line. Then again, he didn't seem very interested in a future with her anyway.

She would certainly never be the same after today.

Anya pulled a transmitter from her breast pocket, from beneath her armor. She'd taken it from the armory along with four blocks of plastic explosive and four waterproof detonators.

"Sorry, mom," she whispered.

"What?" Baird shouted.

Her thumb flipped back the safety and then she pressed the button.

All four remaining speedboats simultaneously went up in flames.

It worked better than she could've possibly hoped.

Baird's mouth hung open just a little while he cautiously looked over the rail, pushing up his goggles to see better. The sudden silence was deafening. The four boats were still running. One went around in a tight circle until it capsized. Two others stalled out after the explosions and started to sink, and the last headed out away from them at top speed, weaving while the last living men aboard tried to jump ship and escape the flames.

"Holy shit," Baird said. "What'd I miss?"

"Corporal." Her voice sounded strange after the assault her ears had endured. Suddenly each of her limbs felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. "Find a way to call home. I don't care how, just get it done. Any resource on this ship is currently at your disposal."

"Um, yeah. I can do that," Baird agreed. Still cautious, he got to his feet, making his way down the line to collect a couple under-qualified assistants before heading below decks.

Anya kept moving. She didn't pause to recount what she'd done. If she didn't keep on the move it would catch up with her and suck her down. She set a watch at all corners of the ship, and then sent the rest of the guys below to help with the firefighting effort. There was still a great deal of smoke, but it was more white than black.

She spent some time on one of the pumps. It was dirty, hard work. Between the heat from the smoldering embers and the plate armor, she soon felt like she was roasting alive. In ten minutes she was relieved. Heat exhaustion was setting in quickly on anyone pumping, so the shifts were kept short. She took two more rotations before Baird called her up onto the deck.

Topside, the blond engineer pointed out three tiny specs on the horizon. Ravens were inbound, and it was one of the most welcome sights Anya had ever seen.

She had all her injured men medevaced on the Ravens, with Marcus going up last. She put Dom in charge of overseeing the operation, which meant he got to ride home with Marcus. He seemed to appreciate it. He even shot her a wan smile after they pulled him aboard off the winch and the chopper started to gain altitude, leaving her behind on the deck below, watching them go, her hair flying around her face.

At the end of the day, when the tugs were in place and hauling the ship back to Vectes with the hope of salvaging the wreck, Anya sat down with Baird and Cole in the mess on Calmaira, one of the COG's remaining small cruisers and part of the fleet escorting them back to shore. When he saw them, the Calmaira's cook brought out a bottle of shine and three glasses.

He was wise enough to leave the bottle.

Cracking her neck to each side, Anya thought about how amazing a hot shower would feel. She could rough it just fine with the boys if she had to, but she was still a girl. Warm water and her own quarters were waiting for her back on the island.

"I think I broke a nail—or two," she commented, examining her dirt-encrusted fingers. It would take days to scrub the black off. She didn't even want to think about what her hair probably looked like, or her face.

Baird slowly turned his head toward her, like he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. "Are you kidding me? After, 'Santiago, I'll staple your balls to that chair!' you're bitching about a chipped nail?" He mimicked her voice in a way that wasn't very complementary, and then he eyed her, calmly waiting for her to react.

"You really enjoy getting a rise out of people, don't you?" Anya surmised.

Cole chuckled, like it amused him to see his buddy get called out on his game.

"Yeah, well," Baird said. "You're not as fun as your other half. But seriously, what you said to Dom—that shit was _epic_. The guy needed to get his ass kicked and Fenix sure as hell won't do it."

With lips pursed, Anya thought on that. As much as she hated to admit it, Baird was right. Dom did need to get his ass kicked once in a while. The man was far too old and far too experienced to be a private. He needed his own squad, but he wouldn't voluntarily leave Marcus and none of the officers had enough fight left in them to force him to take a promotion to corporal or sergeant.

Cole nudged her. "You held it down today, Boss-Lady," he said.

"He won't see it that way," she reminded softly. She'd crossed a line, and although now she was too tired and numb to feel it, the acid taste of bile still clawed the back of her throat.

She'd lost the contents of her stomach more than once since she'd been relieved for the evening. Odds were good the shine whiskey she was partaking of wouldn't last long either.

Cole shrugged. "Maybe not. But he's still breathin', and he can thank you for that."

Anya couldn't argue with his logic, but it didn't relieve the terrible hardness that had taken hold in the pit of her stomach. Instead of answering, she took a drink. They all did, and none of them said anything more the rest of the trip home.


	29. Chapter 29

Baird woke in the dark predawn hours. At first he just laid on his back with one hand behind his head. Chelsea had migrated to the other half of the bed during the night, sprawling out on her stomach after a lot of tossing and turning. With her back all torn up, any position other than face-down probably felt like hell.

Baird noted her arm still just barely pressed against him, which fit pretty well with what he knew about her. Even though she needed her space, she still liked keeping her primary source of safety in reach. Most nights that false sense of security came from a .45 semi-auto. Tonight, the pistol was put away in her bag, and he was glad for it. He knew she had nightmares. More than once she'd jerked violently in her sleep and mumbled 'No' without waking up.

He had a pretty good idea what her first reaction would be if she came to suddenly from one of those nightmares.

After spending a few moments staring into the darkness, enjoying that small amount of contact with her while letting his mind wander, he finally decided it was time to get up and get something done. With a tired sigh, Baird at last slipped out from beneath the comforting weight of the covers and got up, making his way through the darkness from memory until he reached out and felt the rough cut wood of his bedroom door.

After making a silent exit, he made sure to shut the door softly behind him. Just because his internal clock was all screwed up from working nights didn't mean Chelsea's needed to be. It would do her good to get some rest. And it would do him good to get some work done. Even when his head started spinning around, nothing calmed the storm like working with his hands. The second he sat down at his workbench everything else faded away. He started to clean up his last project, rolling up his socket set and placing the pulley he'd stripped for a bearing off to the side. Next, he prepared for his next project. The puzzle at hand consumed him.

Removing the key to the deadbolt on his front door from the ring of keys he kept, Baird used a graphite pencil to color the surface of the key.

Sometimes he found it difficult to understand why so many people turned to mind-altering substances to solve their problems. Why couldn't they find something more constructive to do? Everyone had a hobby, right? Then again, if he was as stupid as most of the people in the world, he'd probably try to claw his way out of his own head too.

Maybe that's what his mother tried to do. After all the blunt passing, snorting and injecting, at the end of the day she still couldn't escape the twisted lonely hell of her own mind. Her doctor-prescribed medications helped, but of course those sorry son-of-a-bitch doctors just wanted to make her a sheep like the rest of society. They didn't have any respect for _her _individuality. If she couldn't be sane via self-medication, then she'd just be crazy.

She got her wish, much to the detriment of all around her.

Baird had a few memories of his earliest years, when his father still lived. He didn't remember much about the man. Just some fuzzy snap-shots of a tall, blond-haired man in a business suit. They were rose-colored for the most part, especially compared to what came later.

Chelsea emerged from his bedroom a little while later, eyes drooping and her hair a ruffled mess. Arms pulled in, she shivered noticeably while padding across the floor to join him.

"What's up?" she asked, taking in his work through squinted eyes not yet used to the bright overhead light.

Baird had his original key clamped in a vice alongside a blank key he'd once collected from an old hardware store.

"See this key?" Baird asked, pointing to the graphite-covered original. Chelsea nodded, and he continued, "That's my original. This other one is a blank. I'm going to file down the blank until it matches the the original."

"Why's this one covered with pencil lead?" she asked, pointing but not touching his work.

"To protect it. If I see the graphite getting scraped off, it's time to hit the brakes." A crick in his neck forced him to pause in his efforts. He'd been filing away while hunched over the vice for a while and the bunched muscles in his neck and shoulders complained at the lack of movement. Setting the file aside, he sat back in his chair, cracking his neck to each side the same way Fenix did all the time. Baird could see why the sergeant did it. There was something satisfying about getting those pops out of his spinal column.

Small but firm hands came to rest on his shoulders. At first hesitant, soon they found a rhythm and began to work at his knotted muscles in earnest.

Suddenly Chelsea's ministrations ceased, her fingers springing away from his bare skin and leaving him feeling a bit high and dry.

"Do you not like that?" she asked. He could feel her hands hovering just above his shoulders.

Baird grunted. He'd been just about ready to melt through the floor. Yep. She was a girl all right—spookier than the wild horses he used to see while out on patrol on the plains surrounding Jacinto. At least he wasn't the only one feeling like someone screwed his head on wrong. "I'm not one of your head case projects. If I don't like what you're doing, I'll let you know," he said, eying her over one shoulder. Then he added, pointedly, "I'd expect _you_ to do the same."

He meant that. After the childhood he'd suffered through, there was no room in his life for a woman who tolerated abuse or discomfort in silence. With Chelsea that probably wouldn't be an issue—she'd certainly left a mark on more than one guy who'd thought she'd shut up and take it—but he owed her the knowing of it anyway.

Baird felt confident Chelsea would never sit back and watch a son of hers get the hell beaten out of him. But then again, it was impossible to completely know someone.

Her hands closed the distance, resting flat-palmed against his back. "Sorry. It's just... Some people are particular about being touched these days."

_Probably should've kept the story about my brother trying to lop off my limbs to myself._ "I think you'd be surprised who you could get away with touching," he informed her, picking up the file and flipping it expertly around his fingers before applying its finer grained side to the spare key once more. "Cole would've shown you a good time."

"Me?" Chelsea asked, dubious. "He's the _Cole Train_. Why would he go for me?"

Baird paused in his work. "So, what? You think I have lower standards than he does?"

That sure made her squirm. She screwed up her face into an interesting expression, obviously trying to work out how to navigate forward without hitting any more landmines. "It's not that. Cole's got a loud personality, and I'm not a loud personality type of girl."

Nodding sagely, Damon kept his features carefully schooled. Eventually she'd figure out giving girls shit was his version of flirtation. Cole would probably tell her.

"Gus is a unique individual. He loves all women, and when he blurs the line between 'friend' and 'friend with benefits,' it never bites him in the ass. Not yet, anyway. With the Santiago situation it would've been tricky, but if you'd shown enough interest, he probably would've taken you up on it."

"Huh." She let her arms encircle around his neck from behind, bringing her lips close to his ear. "And if I'd known that, and pursued it?"

Baird scoffed. "Too late now, sweetheart. You had your chance to be with '_The Train,'" _he mimicked. "You're just going to have live with not knowing how good it could've been. He won't touch you with a ten foot poll now."

"Oh, woe is me." She gave him a quick kiss on one rough cheek. "I only want you for your brain," she whispered teasingly in his ear before she gave his torso one last squeeze and then shuffled off toward the kitchen, the sweatpants she'd borrowed from him hanging low on her ass, teasingly close to slipping off.

"Oh, yeah. That's what girls care about," he said sarcastically, craning his head to watch her open the fridge door and lean over, unknowingly presenting him with an intriguing view of her back side. "They look at Cole, then they look at me, and they think to themselves, 'Oh, my, that chiseled black love machine keeps blocking my view of that scrawny white boy who can do calculus in his head.' I've totally got them lined up, creaming their panties."

Chelsea withdrew her head from the fridge momentarily, a twinge of a smile on her face. "Is it wrong for me to not feel bad about that? As much as I'd love to fight through a horde of your admirers, I think I'm probably also the jealous type."

"Really." Baird quirked one eyebrow. That struck him as an interesting piece of information. So did the concept of a woman finding his smarts attractive. None of his previous 'girlfriends' had taken much of an interest in him, or his interests. Mostly they just wanted a man, and when something better—usually a more malleable guy—came along they followed after it like hogs after the slop pail.

He knew one thing for sure. A jealous girl would not do well with Cole. Baird had no doubt his friend could be faithful to a woman, but nothing short of automatic gun fire could disperse the crowd of women constantly swarming around him. Even if he'd never been famous, Gus was enigmatic. He attracted people.

"Are you aware you don't have any food?" Chelsea called.

_How long until she finds something better? Are you sure you're not the latest upgrade?_ If that was the case, then she definitely hid it better than the others had. She was making a measurable effort, for starters. In his entire life, no one had ever rubbed Baird's shoulders for him. For better or worse, this thing between them felt like it might have some real weight behind it, even after a night of sleeping on it.

"Just grab a beer. It's got carbs in it." Finishing with filing, Baird released the vice and blew the shavings off the copy key. Rising with the keys and file in hand, he headed for the front door. Chelsea met him there, holding a beer as requested.

She watched him open the door and try the key, standing by his side and seeing the experiment through. The key slid in, but it wouldn't turn. Pressing the two keys together, he did a little fine tuning with the file before trying the copy again.

This time the deadbolt slid over, but it took some muscle to get it done. The third time he tried it, the bolt turned over smoothly.

"Yahtzee," Baird said, holding up his handiwork for examination. Chelsea slipped under his arm and he felt the cold bottle she held press against his chest. "How's that brain looking now?" he asked.

Chelsea squeezed him around the waist with her free arm. "I think I'm going to learn a lot from you," she said, her cheek resting against his shoulder. "And I find that very sexy."

One of Baird's eyebrows raised slightly. "How sexy?" he asked, watching her closely.

With a teasing smile on her lips, Chelsea went up on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear.

In Baird's opinion, it was a very good answer. "Do you _want_ me to drag you back to bed and maul you?" he asked facetiously, bringing her flush against his front with one hand against the small of her back, well below the bandage over her stitches, and lowered his mouth to hers. He noticed the blush in her cheeks while he kissed her, embarrassed by her own boldness.

Once again her mere presence lowered his productivity level by at least ten percent. Eighty percent, when he felt her unbound breasts pressing against his lower ribcage through her shirt.

_Just think. If you'd been straight with her last night, you'd probably be twice laid by now, jackass_.

Well, lesson learned, justice served.

Maneuvering them both inside, Baird swung the door shut behind him. For once he sincerely wished he had a couch. Instead he settled for a chair at the kitchen table, setting down keys, file and beer, and then taking a seat with Chelsea straddling his lap, her face buried against the side of his neck. It'd be nice to stretch out, but if they went back to bed he wasn't sure things would stay under control.

Things were getting a little hot and heavy when her stomach growled audibly. Pulling back, Damon ran his palm over her belly and in his opinion it felt a little too lean and concave.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked.

When it took her a minute to recall, he knew he wouldn't like the answer.

"I guess the last time was at Cole's party Saturday night. I was supposed to eat lunch with Wes yesterday," she recalled. "Then there was this fight. Two stranded women going at it. One got her scalp cut open and I guess eating just sort of fell through the cracks."

Baird sighed. Caring about someone was exhausting. At least he knew Cole. After years of serving together in the field, he knew what to expect from Gus and he'd definitely _never_ had to worry about the former baller forgetting to eat. This girl never served on the front line and that alone meant they'd run into culture shock. He didn't know quite what he was in for. He knew Gears, he knew Commandos, NCOs, officers, pilots and engineers. Medics were a little out of his wheelhouse.

"Am I going to have to follow you around and make sure you don't do something stupid, like throw yourself in front of a bus to save some stranger?"

A bit taken aback, Chelsea gave him an odd look. "Why, do I look suicidal to you?"

He quirked a skeptical eyebrow in response, as if to say, _Do you not remember jumping in front of a knife last night?_

"It would make me feel better if you'd make an effort to be a little less selfless." He said this while running his palm over her core, from belly-button to sternum.

Instead of starved-thin like the other girls he'd felt up in the past, she had a pleasing solidness to her. It reminded him of the satisfying heft and balance of a well-made tool, especially after using a flimsy substitute. She wasn't an Amazon like Mataki or Anya, but he could easily imagine her mounting a rifle and firing without risk of separating her shoulder, and he knew she could throw enough weight into a punch to rock a grown man back on his heels.

Some guys wouldn't find that attractive, but Baird had always appreciated functionality.

"I have to be to work in a couple hours," Chelsea reminded softly.

"You're going to eat first," he informed her, realizing belatedly that he intended to be stubborn on this point. More of that damned cave man rearing its ugly head. "Get dressed and I'll take you home."

Suddenly her face fell, like she'd just remembered what would be waiting for her when she left the safe confines of his apartment. "I'm not sure I have a home there anymore," she said solemnly.

"It was more my fault than yours," he offered. He was getting better at this. Even before he offered her the out, he knew it wouldn't make her feel any better.

Chelsea's lips pressed together in a grim line. "I think Marcus would disagree."

Damon snorted dismissively. She'd caught on pretty quickly, but she still had a lot to learn about all of them. "Right. Even if Fenix wanted you gone, which I doubt, he's still Santiago's bitch. Dom would throw the world's biggest hissy fit if Marcus tossed you onto the street."

She nodded absently, clearly still worried about her fate, and worried about Santiago and Fenix and the part she'd played in the drama of the previous evening.

"If I'm wrong and Fenix is a dick about it, tell him to go fuck himself." With that said, Baird pressed the copy key he'd made into one of her palms with his thumb, closing her fingers around it.

"You sure that's what you want?" she asked.

He caught a glimpse of wild animal in her eyes, afraid of stepping into a trap. If she couldn't go home to Fenix and Santiago, she'd have no choice about living with him. If anything went wrong, she'd be most screwed.

"Yeah," he said. He thought he sounded convinced. "I figure you can make me dinner before I go to work, I can make you breakfast before you go to work. On the weekends we might actually see each other."

She smiled, mollified for the moment at least. "Thanks," she said, settling in against him with her head on his shoulder.

With a short sigh, Baird wrapped his arms around her, giving her hip a pat. And in the midst of that tender moment, his practical side reminded him to obtain a significant supply of condoms as soon as he could fucking manage it, please.

* * *

Slowing his truck to a stop at a checkpoint, Baird fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet, pulling out his ID and handing it, along with Chelsea's identification, which he snagged out of her gym bag, over to the MP on duty.

It was still early, the darkest hour just before dawn. The days were steadily getting longer, but the nights remained longer still. Chelsea dozed in the passenger seat, her head leaning against the window, seatbelt slung across her shoulder. She'd gotten out her heavy COG issue coat and wrapped up in it, arms crossed over her chest.

The MP swiped their IDs through his electronic clipboard and each beeped, but instead of handing them back, the MP paused.

"You good?" Baird asked after a minute of waiting.

"Yeah," the corporal said, glancing up warily. "It didn't go through. Give me a minute."

Baird's eyes narrowed, his elbow leaning on the window frame. "It sounded like they went through."

"It'll just be a minute. Hey, Solice!" the corporal called. "Come here a minute. I'm having trouble with the clipboard again."

Solice, the same South Islander private Baird met the night he was incarcerated for public intoxication, strolled out of the guard shack and joined the corporal standing next to Baird's truck. The two of them eyed the clipboard, and then exchanged a meaningful glance.

"What's going on, guys?" Baird asked, sick of this bullshit. He'd helped reestablish the ID check database and infrastructure, and at that moment he felt perhaps he regretted it.

Solice approached the truck, ducking down so he could see inside. He sighed, like he really hated his job. "Hey, brah," Solice said. "You should know, the guys are still talkin' about that tongue lashin' you gave Sergeant Coronach. That was some funny shit, man."

"Well, he earned it." Baird's hackles stood on end. He had a feeling he might know what this was about and it made his skin crawl.

Solice nodded, as if agreeing. "Yeah, he did. Listen, brah. We got an arrest warrant for your lady. Some guy is pressing assault charges."

And suddenly it was so much worse than he'd feared. Baird got right in Solice's face, half snarling, "You listen to me. _I_ beat the piss out of that asshole. If you take her into custody they'll put her on a farm."

Solice nodded, seeming to take in his words. "I'll do what I can, brah." He smacked the top of the cab, and then started making his way around the front of the truck.

Baird wasn't sure what he would've done. Probably thrown the truck into gear and crashed through the checkpoint, but the corporal had his sidearm drawn and trained on him the second Solice stepped aside.

"Keep your hands on the steering wheel, sir. Step out of the vehicle and place both hands on the hood."

Solice tapped on the passenger window and Chelsea jerked awake. "Need you to step out, ma'am."

She glanced over at him, fear and confusion in her eyes. Why were MPs about to take her? Why was he letting this happen?

Baird killed the engine, and they both reluctantly followed direction from the MPs and got out of the truck. Standing with his hands on the hood, he couldn't look at her across from him, assuming the same stance and enduring a similar pat-down. He could just image the humiliation she must be feeling. The slow creep of red into her cheeks, inspired by anger and embarrassment.

She blushed easily. He knew that.

"Don't worry," the corporal said, reaching forward to place a handcuff on Baird's right wrist and drawing it behind his back. "We'll watch out for her. Once we've taken her into custody you can be on your way."

_I'm supposed to watch out for her. I'm supposed to be smart enough to stay one step ahead of the bullshit._

"Cuff's too tight," Baird said.

"What?" his MP asked, reaching forward for his left wrist.

An instant later Baird's elbow found the MP's nose, breaking it with a grinding crack. Unfortunately the corporal was scrappier than he looked. Wrapping both arms around Baird's torso, the MP slammed him against the fender.

"I'm just doing my job, asshole!" the corporal shouted, even his fiercest voice nasally and comedic.

But there was nothing funny about the way he fought. His fist found Damon's floating ribs even with blood and tears streaming down his face from a busted nose, and it hurt like hell. It would take a miracle for Baird to fight him off, and then Solice.

_All this shit just for a girl?_

Maybe he'd lost it, but since he'd already gone this far Baird took a page from Dom's book and let raw emotion carry the day. While the MP struggled to bring his wrists together and cuff him, keeping him pressed against the truck, Baird slid down, worked his hips under the other man's center of gravity and used that leverage to lift and then topple over backward on top of the younger man.

He really didn't want to beat the hell out of this guy, but what choice did he have?

* * *

Groggy and shocked at the sudden end of her freedom, Chelsea's entire body trembled while she blankly watched Baird roll on the ground with the corporal MP. Her own large MP calmly continued to pat her down. At least he was a gentleman about it. No cheap feels.

"Hit me," the MP whispered in her ear while checking the arms of her coat for concealed weaponry.

She shot him a confused look.

"Your boy'll be out in the morning. You'll go to a farm," he whispered in her other ear while checking her other arm. "Think about it."

He gave her some distance to work with, checking her lower back for the third time. Turning around, Chelsea threw a hook that connected squarely with the MP's temple, and then she braced her back against the truck and kicked him in the solar plexus, the blow blunted by his plate armor but still forcing him back. He made an awkward grab for her with both arms, but she ducked it, sliding under his arm at the armpit and once behind him, Chelsea turned and jumped, punching him in the back of the skull. The MP went down to a knee and Chelsea took off running.

In the distance, she could hear Baird cheering her on after the two MPs subdued him. "That's right! That's why you don't fuck with _my _girl!"

She wanted to look back, but she knew she couldn't. The darkness of the city welcomed her into its protective embrace with only the bare light of the stars twinkling above to guide her. Chelsea ran long and far until each breath became laborious and her legs could hardly support her flight from everything she held dear. And still she ran on, her boots pounding pavement and her coat flying out behind her. She disappeared into the shadows, her fate uncertain and her heart in agony. Going back would not be an option now.

For the first time in her life, she was entirely on her own.

* * *

_AN: Sorry about the delay. I moved and have been super busy working on my new place. As always, thank you so much for sticking with the story. Any and all support is very much appreciated. So let me know how I'm doing. Shred me. I can take it;-)_


	30. Chapter 30

_AN: Thanks so much to my beta, writtenrhythm. She's going to start posting a new story soon and you should all go check it out because it's gonna be good;-)_

* * *

Traversing the city streets at the first light of dawn, Carlo was in his element, bobbing his head in time to a beat only he could hear. Like many children his age in the South Islander neighborhoods, he kept the hours he chose and came and went as he pleased, plunging into the city's underbelly like a fish into water. During the course of the night he'd already frequented a number of establishments and spent a decent chunk of the money he'd won playing cards with Marcus and Cole the previous afternoon.

Walking down the sidewalk downtown, Carlo had a cigar in one hand and his Balisong in the other, the tempered steel flickering in the low light while twirling around his fingers, its movement so fluid from a distance it resembled a living thing.

When he encountered two hookers dressed to kill and on their way home after an evening of work, they split to walk around him, and Carlo turned to watch their 'assets' go.

"Lookin' hot, ladies," he called, the light buzz of alcohol making him bold.

They fell into each other's arms laughing at him. "Past your bed time, ain't it, shorty?"

"Eh! I'm enough man for both you skanks!" he shouted, waving his cigar at them. "I'd make you love me!"

One blew a kiss to him. "All I love is money, little man. You got it, then you got me."

"You've got us both!"

Carlo sighed, continuing on down the sidewalk, filling his lungs with warm sweet-smelling smoke and then exhaling a steady gray stream. "Yeah, yeah, I'm working on it." He still had a good amount of cash rattling around in his pockets, but more was always better.

Up ahead two MPs exited the jail. Carlo nodded politely to them in passing, discretely slipping his folded Balisong into his back pocketso they wouldn't catch sight of it. He pushed open the heavy front door of the jail, sliding in like he owned the place.

Catching sight of Solice sitting at the front desk, Carlo walked over, hopping up so his forearms hooked over the countertop, entirely supporting his weight so his feet dangled high above the floor.

"Aw, Brah. You look like shit!" he exclaimed, delighted.

Solice had an icepack pressed against the back of his head, and the side of his face was mottled with purple and blue bruises. He reached forward and grabbed the cigar from Carlo's mouth, putting it out on the counter top.

"No smoking," he chided, leaning back with ice pack still in place, his countenance that of a man with one hell of a headache. "And where'd you get those clothes, huh? You roll a drunk Gear?"

Carlo scowled. He rarely appreciated being told what to do. "Aw, come on, Maleko! Do you know how much I paid for that cigar?" And from there he launched into a tirade of the old tribal language made new by the gangster boys in the neighborhood who'd turned it into grotesque slang used to berate a rival from the same neighborhood. It was the daring height of disrespect, the younger generation's way of spitting on its elders, and Carlo wielded it with a tongue as sharp as any native islander boy.

As usual, Solice wasn't having it. He didn't truck with the gangs and he loathed the disrespect they spouted. As an MP he dealt with the deteriorating conditions of his culture and home every day. Reaching forward once again Solice slammed a massive palm against the counter and the sharp _crack _silenced Carlo.

"Speak to me with respect, like a man," the MP snarled, his black eyes glaring into Carlo's, daring him to refuse. "If you want to talk trash, then go be trash. Don't ask me for any more favors."

Maleko Solice came from the same neighborhoods Carlo had grown up in, although he was part of an adjacent tribe from a different island. With most people he was 'makani', or laid back, relaxed, going with the flow. His intensity of character only showed through around other islander boys, especially young wannabe hard-cases like Carlo and Sinh.

Most young men from the Stranded slums went into gangs, especially the islanders. But Solice grew up with a sense of honor and duty, and a deep reverence for tradition and learning. Raised by his father in a strict household with twelve siblings—some blood and some foster—he remained in school long enough to be deemed worthy to join the COG and become a soldier at sixteen.

Carlo had heard most of Maleko's paycheck went back to his father's house and he often returned on leave to spend time with his siblings instead of going out boozing and whoring like most young male soldiers.

The gang members back home scoffed mercilessly at Maleko behind his back, but never to his face. Maleko meant 'warlike,' and the name fit its owner like a glove. Carlo was not foolish enough to believe boot-camp, hot showers and COG food had softened the man. On the contrary, where the streets had molded Maleko into a picture of strength and cunning, his profession as a soldier seemed to build on that already sound foundation.

With a look of disgust clinging to his features, Carlo slid to the ground. "You got anyone for me or not?" he asked.

Leaning back once more, Solice crossed his booted ankles on top of the counter, again relaxing back into his chair. "We got one in the tank, but he ain't drunk. You watch yourself with that one, eh? Not too close."

"Yeah, yeah."

"I'm not kidding. He's dangerous."

"What? Just because he beat you up?" Carlo threw back over his shoulder.

"Wasn't him that beat on me. Was his girl." Maleko tapped his forehead with a fingertip. "Think about it."

Carlo wasn't in the business of doing any thinking at the moment. He hadn't stopped moving for hours. The black man had hunted him far into the night with the old woman as his companion, but the two of them couldn't track shit in a concrete jungle. They'd asked after him around the neighborhood, but no one recalled him there. It was his home and they were COG, strangers. Unwelcome and ill-loved.

Making his way back to the drunk tank, Carlo laughed when he caught sight of the blond man he'd met the previous evening. What had the old woman called him? Blondie?

"Eh, Asshole!" he called merrily.

"That's Baird to you, mother fucker," the blond man grumbled, turning on the cell's lone bunk to see his visitor, rapidly blinking blurry green eyes. "Oh, shit. Look who it is."

Carlo pulled over a low table from the corner, setting it next to the bars of the cell and sitting down in a chair at the far end. From his pocket, he produced a pack of well-worn playing cards and started to shuffle, his small fingers as agile as any card shark.

"You play?" he asked when he noticed Baird watching him with interest.

"Not for cash."

Carlo only grinned. He sensed Baird was not the sort of man who took idle time well. Without a task to occupy his hands and his brain, minutes passed like hours. A man like him would itch for something to pass the time.

"You play with me, you'll play for cash. Or you can sit there until the judge comes in. _If_ he comes in today. I saw him at a bar last night. He took home a fine woman and he won't be in early."

Baird seemed to pause before nodding his reluctant agreement. Coming over to the bars, he sat down cross-legged on the rust-stained cement, arranging himself so he could easily reach the table through the bars.

"Is this how you support yourself?" Baird asked while Carlo dealt the cards. "Hustling drunks on the weekends?"

"Eh, you know what they say," Carlo said, expertly flipping cards off the top of the stack. "A con man with only one con will go hungry."

"Actually, I have no idea what they say. I always worked for a living. Or got shot at for a living. Same difference, I guess."

"Maybe, but you're in there, and I'm out here, taking your money."

"You're leaving out the part where I get out of here in a few hours and then go home and take a shower in my own bathroom with hot running water. And don't forget the part where I get laid tonight, in my own bed."

"Yeah, yeah. You got your kingdom, I got mine. Every night I do whatever I want. If I want to drink, I drink. If I want to smoke, I do it. Got no boss, got nowhere to be. Bet you've never been that free in your life, brah."

Baird scoffed. "You think I don't know what that's like? I ran away from home all the time. It was great for a while, but it didn't get me anywhere. The only thing I envy you for is the fact that your crazy ass mother had just enough sense to leave you, so you didn't have to deal with her being crazy."

Carlo lurched to his feet, throwing the table out of the way and jamming his arms through the bars, reaching for Baird's throat. It was a mistake. The blond man merely leaned back out of reach, grabbing Carlo's wrists and forcing his arms to bend at the elbow so he couldn't pull them out, trapping him. In spite of his predicament, Carlo spouted curses in a thick stream.

"Don't you ever talk about her like that! You didn't know her, you piece of shit!"

"Yeah, fuck that. Do you have any idea how many times people told me I should _feel sorry_ for my mother because she was nuts? How many people told me to 'help her out?' As if she ever cooked a meal or did a load of laundry? I guess I could've helped her prep a needle and shoot up. Maybe she couldn't help it, and maybe your mom couldn't either, but she wrecked my life anyway. I've got news for you, kid. Long before Maria Santiago walked out on you, she abandoned your dad. He looked for her longer than you've been alive and even though she's dead, that sorry bastard hasn't considered abandoning her for a second."

That brought him up short. Ceasing his struggles, Carlo pouted silently, jerking his wrists from Baird's grasp the second he felt that iron grip relent.

The two of them were silent for a long time. Carlo gathered up his scattered playing cards from the floor and then knelt just outside the bars, staring down at the carefully arranged stack in his hands.

"She used to get mad at me sometimes because I wasn't Bennie," Carlo admitted. "She wanted him, and sometimes she didn't know me. I don't remember very well, but I think she left me to find him."

Baird sighed. "From what little Dom's said about it in my presence, your brother and sister dying triggered her mental breakdown. So for what it's worth, she went bat-shit way before you came along."

Carlo nodded as if he understood, but he didn't. Why sacrifice those alive for those lost? Why didn't he weigh the same in his mother's eyes as his dead siblings? All of a sudden he felt very tired, cold, and hungry. The jail stank and the concrete under his knees was hard and unyielding, yet he'd kill to sleep here tonight.

He answered to no one; the world was his oyster, and most of his life he'd travelled through it without a single real friend.

"Sometimes," Carlo whispered, his eyes haunted. "I'm afraid I'll be like her one day. When I'm older."

Baird grunted absent agreement. "I used to be afraid of that, too," he admitted.

Carlo looked up, finding the older man's eyes very distant and grave. A rigidness took hold of Baird's body, giving Carlo the impression that he'd feared that eventuality very much. Far more so than he let on.

Heaving up off the ground and onto his feet, Baird made his way to the bunk to lie down. "Go home, kid," he said, sprawling out on his back with one arm slung over his eyes to ward off the coming daylight filtering in through the window. "I guarantee Santiago won't sleep or eat until he knows what happened to you."

"Why would he care, brah? He don't even know me."

That earned him a stunted laugh from the former Gear. "Trust me. He can't help himself."

* * *

With each agony-inspiring step, Dom wondered what in the world he'd been thinking when he'd refused to let Gus or Marcus stay with him that day. Obviously he had no business trying to care for himself. With his arm braced against his ribcage in a futile effort to ward off the pain, Dom finally reached the front door of the apartment, a trek of perhaps fifteen feet that felt more like fifteen miles. But in the end it was well worth it. Upon opening the door he sighed with relief when he found Carlo standing outside in the hallway.

For a long moment father and son stood in silence; Dom speculative, leaning against the door jamb, and Carlo looking a bit out of his depth. The boy's eyes were red and tired. He probably hadn't slept. He smelled like a smoky bar.

_He's definitely not a four-year-old,_ Dom thought, a bit chagrined.

"I'm glad you decided to come back, hijo," Dom finally said to break the stalemate, and he noticed Carlo flinched at that.

"What happened to you?" Carlo finally asked, nodding at Dom's ribs. "You get knifed?"

Dom shrugged. "Something like that." The night before Carlo had bolted when he saw Dom bleeding. If the kid wanted to be nonchalant about it now, then so would he.

Carlo grimaced. "What'd you do that for? Don't you know how bad that hurts?"

That almost prompted Dom to ask if Carlo knew what it felt like from experience, but he resisted the impulse. There would be plenty of time for that discussion later. Besides, knowing something like that at this moment might inspire him to do something wrathful and rash, and like it or not he wasn't up for either of those today.

"It's a long story," Dom said carefully. "If you want, I'll make some coffee and tell you all about it."

Coffee? Would he have ever let Bennie touch coffee at thirteen? Probably not—but the way Marcus told it, this boy had run wild most of his life. Being a parent to him would be a very delicate process. He might get farther treating his son like an adult. How had he deluded himself into thinking he knew how to be a father? This felt nothing like riding a bike. More like trying to relearn how to tread water in the middle of the ocean with ten foot waves crashing over his head.

The offer of a hot drink must've been acceptable, because Carlo sauntered through the door, taking a seat on the couch like he owned the place. The kid had a palpable presence. The way Carlo could walk in and take over a room reminded Dom so much of his older brother it wrenched his guts a little, but he also marveled at it. Dom had always been self-conscious, and Maria had been shy with strangers. Their other two children never displayed any desire for showmanship, but this one clearly loved attention.

Marcus and Cole had long since left for work, so the two of them had the place to themselves. Dom preferred it that way. Now that Baird had pointed it out, Dom needed to feel like he could do this without Marcus holding his hand. Since Maria disappeared, Dom hadn't taken charge of anyone. Even if he hadn't gotten blackballed for testifying on Marcus's behalf, he never would've accepted a promotion. All the ambition he'd once had faded away after E-Day. But for Carlo, he'd have to resurrect that sense of responsibility.

"I don't get it," Carlo said, taking a sip from his mug. "Why'd you take the hit like that? Didn't think you even liked that Baird guy."

Dom gingerly took a seat next to Carlo on the couch, his own mug in his hands. He'd recited the events of the previous evening while making coffee.

"We've all been through a lot together. We're like a really messed up family. Even though I fight with Damon once in a while, that doesn't mean I'm going to let anyone else take a shot at him. And I want you to know, if you choose to stay here I won't ever lay a hand on you. Baird's got a gift for making me crazy. Just ask Marcus."

The boy looked skeptical. "Ask Marcus? Ain't he your buddy? Wouldn't he lie for you?"

"Yeah, not in a million years," Dom scoffed. "Not about something like that, anyway. If you ever want a straight answer, Marcus'll give it to you."

_If you like it or not,_ he added mentally. Dom had woken up at the clinic in a lot of pain the previous evening and he'd insisted on walking home. Marcus had told him in no uncertain terms how stupid that idea was.

The argument hadn't ended well, and Dom had walked home, so pissed off he didn't care if it killed him.

"What do you mean _if _I _choose_ to stay here?" Carlo asked. "Thought it was all settled, the way Nai Nai and Marcus said it."

There was his out. All he had to do was let Marcus take charge behind the scenes and everything would be settled and done. Dom had no doubt if he started to flag, his friend would be there to pick up the pieces. Picking up the slack for Dom allowed Marcus to put off living his own life.

"I don't give a damn what agreement they had. I'm your father and you are my son. From now until forever we're going to have to work things out for ourselves." He paused and noted the leery look Carlo gave him, as if the boy could sense the 'but' coming. "But I can't do this if you're going to run out on me whenever something goes wrong. After your mother..."

Strong emotion washed up into Dom's chest, squeezing his heart in a vice and stealing his breath. Saying this to his son was akin to torture. He wanted to say he'd love Carlo forever and always forgive him no matter what he did. That was the truth, but if the kid knew that he'd be free to take advantage of it. He'd walk all over Dom like a door mat.

"...after she left, it broke something in me. I was obsessed with finding her, and it led me to some dark places. I did some things I'm not proud of."

"Like what?" Carlo asked, glib.

He'd hoped he wouldn't ever have to answer that question. Strange how he'd always been afraid Marcus would ask it.

"I killed a man," Dom admitted. "I was out on patrol with Beta 3 a few months after Marcus was put in jail. We picked up a prisoner at an outpost; a Stranded man convicted of murdering a COG officer on his way to meet the firing squad at Jacinto. He saw me showing Maria's picture to some people we met on the way back to base and he kept taunting me. He said he'd seen her. Said he and his gang raided another Stranded camp, and he took her as a prize. He claimed he didn't kill her, but he said he'd raped her over and over again. At first I just told him to shut up, but he kept talking. He knew things about her. Things I'd hoped only I would ever know."

Dom had to stop so he wouldn't get choked up. Carlo's face had gone pale, and he hung on every word, his lips slightly parted as if to say something he couldn't get out. Dom could see the barest crack in the boy's iron facade. The pain in his dark eyes gave him away, and it was such a relief to see that. If Carlo still loved his mother so much even after everything he'd been through, the two of them had a chance to make things work.

"What did you do to him?" Carlo finally asked, stricken.

"I almost killed him right there, but my sergeant intervened. I had the rest of the day to sit around and think about how much I needed him to know fear when he died. In front of a COG firing squad he might've become a martyr, and he knew it. Worse, he welcomed it. So when I was on watch that night I let him go and I tracked him for miles, all the way back to his camp. He fell asleep safe in his own tent, and when they found his body the next morning he had one hell of a shocked look on his face."

Carlo had pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. "How do you know he wasn't my father?" he asked after a pensive moment.

Dom shrugged. "Don't think this happened until after she left you. Besides, your ear lobes are attached," he said, affectionately flicking one of Carlo's ears with his fingertip. Then he pointed at a red towel Cole had tossed haphazardly onto the table that morning before leaving for work. "What color does that look like to you?"

Carlo shrugged. "Brown?" he answered.

Dom smirked, affectionately rubbing the boy's thick hair. "You got it worse than I do. You're red-green color blind, hijo. You're a Santiago man for sure."

"What happens if I decide not to live here?" the boy asked, some of the hardness coming back into his features.

"That's up to you," Dom told him gravely. "The offer won't expire, but it's all or nothing. If I'm going to commit one hundred percent to you, then I need your best effort to do the same in return. I'm strict. I'll make you go to school. I'll make you go to bed at the same time every night, clean your room and do dishes. I won't let you smoke. I won't let you drink until you're old enough. Things won't always go smoothly between us, and we'll both get mad sometimes, but I'll never throw you out. You may not get everything you want, but you'll always have more than enough of what you need. I just need you to promise me you won't give up."

"Like mama did," Carlo whispered. "She gave up on you."

That wasn't what he'd been trying to imply at all, and it wasn't the direction he wanted the conversation to go. "No. You gotta understand, Carlo. She was sick."

"But she_ did, _" the boy insisted, his resolve hardening on this point."She gave up._" __  
__  
_Dom tried to explain, "Maria wasn't much older than you when she first became a mother and I wasn't always there to help her. She dedicated her entire life to our children. Then she lost them, and her parents."

"So did you!" Carlo nearly shouted, exasperated. "And she still left you!"

Dom started to argue, but what could he say to that? He could see so clearly all the reasons why Maria left him and he'd made excuse after excuse for her, but Carlo didn't have the same perspective he did. Carlo's mother left him. End of story.

Dom would be lying if he said he'd never resented his wife, even if only in the darkest corners of his mind. Their son and daughter died and she fell apart when he needed her most. Dom never had that luxury. He never had the opportunity to be the weak one. Not even for a moment.

"She wasn't well enough to have another child," Dom finally said. "Baird was right. I let that happen and I did both of you a disservice. Even if she'd stayed with me, I could've died in the field and she couldn't take care of you. I understand where you're coming from, but it would be more fair if you blamed me instead of her."

Carlo shrugged one shoulder, every inch a defensive teenager. "So, what? You didn't want me either?"

_Way to go, Dom. Stuck your foot square in your mouth again._ Dom took a deep breath, and tried his best not to grimace. "We sent Bennie and Sylvie to stay with their grandparents the day the Locusts appeared because it was peace time and we'd decided we were ready for another baby. We even talked about naming you after my brother. So you see, we did want you. We planned for you and I could never regret you, Carlo. I hate that I haven't been there all along. I just wish it had happened under better circumstances—for your sake." And then he added, sincerely, "I want you in my life more than anything."

"More than having them all back?" Carlo asked, his eyes glued to his coffee cup. He'd drained the contents, but still held it in front of him like a shield. Even though he talked a tough game and carried himself like a big man, on this couch he was definitely a boy.

Chelsea would call that a loaded question. He needed to elevate Carlo's sense of being needed and wanted, but he couldn't lie to the kid. Not about this.

"I want them back," Dom acknowledged. "Every day I wish and pray to see them one more time. All of them. My parents, Maria, Carlos. Bennie and Sylvie. The rest of my family and friends. But if I had to choose, I wouldn't want them back if I couldn't have you too."

Carlo rubbed at his eyes with one fist and Dom looked away, in case the boy was crying and didn't want him to see. After a minute, Carlo reached out and nudged Dom's shoulder with his knuckles.

"'Eh," Carlo asked, his voice thick but his eyes dry. "You think I could stay here with you maybe?"

Relief gushed through Dom's chest in towering waves. He smiled, trying to downplay the strength of his emotional reaction. He wanted to reach out and gather up his son in both arms, but for all the show he put on, Carlo was easily hurt, and proud. So incredibly proud.

"Yeah. I think we could work something out," Dom said.

That earned him a thin smile from his son. It was weak, but it was a start.

* * *

_AN: Please review. Without sufficient reviews to keep me focused on this story, who knows what I might do with those precious spare minutes when I'm waiting for my files to load at work. I might go program a desktop application that pops off with random Gears of War sound bytes and I don't think any of us wants that...;-) _


	31. Chapter 31

_AN: Okay, so I realize this is an insanely long chapter, but I wanted to get this over and done with and out of the way so I can get started with part II. Part II will begin in the next chapter and it will be more of a story and less of a meandering, casual observance of Delta's every day life from an outsider's perspective. It's essentially like a sequel, but since this story doesn't really have that many chapters at this point, I figure it won't hurt to combine the two, and this way anyone who's already following this story won't get lost in the transition._

_I know it's been a long time since I posted, so here's the Glee-style recap of what's going on: Dom got stabbed in the chest by Chelsea's ex-boyfriend Wes, Baird beat up Wes, and Wes pressed charges against Chelsea. Chelsea and Baird got stopped by MPs because of the warrant for Chelsea's arrest, and Chelsea had to escape or go to a farm. That's the last time anyone saw her. Dom made a deal with his newly found son, Carlo, to come live with him, but only if Carlo was willing to go all in, curfew and all. In exchange, Dom promised to provide everything Carlo would ever need. Also, around three years ago Delta was on a ship with Anya and the ship was sinking, so Anya saved them all by lighting up a bunch of Stranded prisoners like Roman candles, which probably didn't go over so well with Marcus after the fact, what with him being an eclectic mix of justice-system supporter and ex-convict._

* * *

The sound of the sliding dead bolt snapped Baird out of a near dream-state. For the millionth time that night, his consciousness started to slide toward sleep while he stood upright and every single time he closed his eyes he saw Chelsea running away from him on a dark, wet street, her coat flying out behind her. The same earth-green canvas COG issue coat currently draped in half over his right forearm.

Baird had hoped Cole would answer the door. It would've been nice to see a friendly face before he marched out in front of the firing squad. Instead, he got Fenix. Marcus Fucking Fenix. Baird decided right then if ever there was a man who needed a punch in the face, Marcus Fenix was it. Not that he could pin down an exact infraction for which Marcus deserved to be punched, but it was still early in the day. Plenty of time left to find a reason.

For a long moment the two men stood in silence with Fenix staring at him, all cool and un-flustered.

"You waiting for a password or something?" Baird asked.

Fenix crossed his arms over his chest, making those tree-trunk biceps look even more ridiculously huge than usual. "Nope. Just wondering why there's a drunk asshole standing outside my apartment at six in the morning."

"Hey, I may be a drunk asshole, but I _know_ what six in the morning looks like," Baird said, pointing at the window at the end of the hall where the top half of the bright orange sun could be seen just coming up over the horizon. "And it's at _least _six-thirty, so kiss my ass, Fenix!"

"Well excuse me, Professor," he said, like he just didn't care. It was almost like he knew that battened down, cold fish act made Baird want to beat him about the face until he spit out all his teeth.

How could Marcus be so battened down? It had been two days. _Two days. _Even two guys as dense as Fenix and Santiago would've realized by now that their forth roommate hadn't come home. After all that crap about how much they cared and what a great thing they were doing taking Chelsea in, when she disappeared they really didn't give a damn after all.

Then again, Baird admitted internally, hadn't he been kidding himself for the past two days? At first he thought maybe her key to his apartment didn't work after all and she'd gone home, but a brief conversation with Cole between shifts dashed that hope. Then he started to think maybe she'd decided to 'lay low' for a while, make sure she didn't get grabbed trying to go to work or go home.

He'd made a grim discovery when he finally did get a chance to go looking for her. At this point all he wanted to do was report his findings to home base, and then go crash. Why the hell did Fenix have to make everything so much harder than it needed to be?

"I need to see Santiago," Baird informed the human roadblock standing in front of him.

"He's asleep," Marcus said coolly.

_Aggravating son of a bitch. _"Yeah, yeah. And as cute as it is that you think you're his mother, I'm not going anywhere until I see him, dip-shit."

Fenix must've inferred that he really wasn't fucking around, because he finally moved, letting the door swing open. Baird thought about taking a parting shot, something along the lines of: _I'm sure taking me seriously for once was really hard for you. _But he had bigger fish to fry.

Dom was camping on the couch, strategically placed between the bathroom and the refrigerator, and he wasn't asleep. He'd obviously heard the conversation out in the hallway and he'd started the process of sitting up, slowly and painfully.

Didn't Fenix ever get shived in prison? An injury like that didn't allow for much more than fitful dozing.

He should know. Like he'd told Chelsea, his brother had tried to hack him into bits from time to time.

Tossing the long coat he carried onto the table, Baird grumbled under his breath while pulling one of the crates he hated so much up to the table. Placing his ruck on the floor between his knees, Baird removed two identical bottles of shine whiskey while Santiago struggled to sit up.

Baird placed one bottle on the table, the other he kept for himself. He would need it to get through this conversation. He'd figured Santiago could use a drink too.

"What's that?" Dom asked, motioning to the coat.

Pulling the cork from his bottle, Baird took a long shot. A long, long shot. Head back, Adam's apple bobbing three, four, five times. He drained a quarter of the bottle in one go and then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His chin was rough from three days of growth and his eyes had that too-dry feeling from lack of sleep. Back in the COG, Baird was well known for running other guys into the ground. Any assistant they gave him fell by the wayside long before Damon even hit his peak. Sometimes he wondered if that was his mother's madness at work. A constant manic cycle kept in check only through sheer will power. Or maybe it was OCD.

It wasn't until he reached the end of his journey, here amongst his former squad, that Baird finally realized how tired he felt. He finally felt the tension that had ridden between his shoulder-blades for days. After walking around strung tighter than a bow, it took a conscious effort to relax his shoulders and his back. Rubbing at his sinuses, he tried to relax his jaw and let the furrow at his brow fade.

All in vein. He still had one more job to do, and it wouldn't be pleasant.

Anyway, here went nothing.

"It's Ferria's," Baird said, already creating distance by using her last name. He struggled to even admit she'd been female. Male comrades disappeared all the time and he'd grown accustomed to shrugging off loss after loss. "She was wearing it two nights ago when she got pulled out of my truck by MPs. She made a break for it and got away, but they hauled me in to sit in the tank overnight so I don't know what happened to her."

Baird gave the news a minute to sink in. All of a sudden Dom looked more like an old man than Baird had ever seen him. His face was haggard and pale, and the fight went out of the feisty Hispanic. He didn't tear up, though. Baird appreciated that; seeing another man cry always made him uncomfortable. Hell, seeing anyone cry made him uncomfortable.

Speaking of uncomfortable, he'd decided he was glad he hadn't slept with Ferria after all. This was unpleasant enough without throwing on an, 'Oh, by the way, Dom, I fucked her right before she disappeared.' If things had gone that far he would've been hard pressed to lie about it if the subject came up. Usually Baird strongly, vehemently abhorred lying by omission. Omission killed people in war. But here it seemed appropriate. Besides, he still didn't have a name for what he'd felt for the chick, but whatever it'd been, he'd balled it up and shoved it in a corner, refusing to poke at it.

If she came back, they could deal with it. If she didn't, then maybe it was better kept between the two of them. Really, what was there to tell? Did twelve hours even count as a relationship?

"How did you find her coat?" Dom finally asked, reaching out to grab the second bottle of shine Baird had brought, uncorking it.

"I gave her a new comm ear piece and she wore it for a while. When it started to hurt her ear canal she put it in her coat pocket. While it's on, I can use the communication satellites to triangulate its general position, accurate to approximately fifty yards. That's how I eventually found that," Baird motioned to the coat, "in a homeless woman's cart. The old bat was none too lucid, but she said she pulled it off a girl's body."

Dom took a drink and then remained silent for a long moment, and very still. With the chest wound he was probably breathing shallow anyway, but Baird couldn't see him breathing at all. Dom's eyes didn't go wide in shock or darken with fury. He just sat there for a long time and didn't react. In the background, Fenix stood in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter-top with his arms folded.

The sound of a dropped pin would've reverberated in that room.

"Did you find a body?" Dom finally asked, resigned.

"No, but that doesn't mean there wasn't one. I checked the morgue and the meat wagon did pick up a Jane Doe in that area yesterday. The body was stripped."

Dom nodded. He'd know what that meant. With disease creeping steadily up the list of things that might wipe out humanity next, stripped bodies without ID were usually cremated as soon as they reached the morgue. More often than not, no one ever came looking for those bodies, so virtually no records were kept.

Reaching out with the arm on his uninjured side, Dom spread out the coat on the table-top, gingerly smoothing out the folds and finding the same damning dark stains Baird had found. Whoever had worn the garment last had bled heavily on it, front and back. Rust colored flakes stuck to Santiago's palm. The faint coppery scent of nearly-dried blood was all too familiar to veterans of their shared profession. It was definitely Chelsea's - Ferria's - coat. 'Ferria' was printed in block letters on a strip of green tape above the left breast pocket. But was it her blood?

"How did she die?" Dom asked.

"Coroner said the Jane Doe he examined was shot close-range in the neck and face with a scatter-gun of unknown gauge and her nose was smashed in, probably with the butt of the same weapon. They found her deep in gang territory, on the southwest side of the city, so they didn't spend much time examining the body. They thought she was a prostitute, or mistaken for one. They didn't even bother checking for sexual assault."

A momentary spasm at the hinge of Dom's jaw was the only indication he'd heard. "She would've died before letting anyone mistake her for a prostitute," he said, voicing the same thought they were all having.

_I've failed, again, _was written all over Dom's face, and in his sharp black eyes.

For Baird, the worst part of all of this wasn't the sense of failure, or wondering about all the things he could've done differently to stop this from happening. That sort of thinking wouldn't move him forward, it wouldn't help. No, the part that really dug in under his skin was the not-knowing. Two nights ago he'd had her next to him in bed. Today she was gone. At least when a buddy died in war someone usually knew what happened to him. Even a gruesome explanation was better than no explanation at all. Damon was good at getting over people leaving, or dying. He wasn't good at not having answers.

Maybe he could check the blood type on the coat and see if it matched Chelsea's—Ferria's—blood type? Except, he didn't know her blood type. It would've been printed on her tags, but he didn't recover those. If the COG had her medical records he might find that information, but record keeping was so spotty the probability was low.

Each time he came up with an idea that might prove her living or dead, there was one piece of missing information that shot a hole clean through it. No matter how hard he tried to stop, Baird's brain kept trying to chug out a solution.

"Why would she have been over there?" Marcus asked. "It's nowhere near Bender, or here."

Baird needed a drink, so he took one, and then he wished he had time to take ten more. He really wasn't equipped for this shit. This was Santiago's arena. "I think she was trying to get out of town without hitting any more checkpoints. Kendall's pressing assault charges against her. There's a warrant for her arrest. That's why we were stopped."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dom asked, incredulous. He indicated his busted ribs. "I should be pressing assault charges against _him_. Shit, I should kill him," he said, his voice cold and dangerous.

Baird took another drink, and even in its muddled state his brain surmised that Carlo must've come home, thus resulting in this new, watered-down Dom. If this shit had come up before his son appeared on the scene, Dom would've done a hell of a lot more than threaten to kill Kendall. He might've gutted the fucker already. And Baird would've helped.

If he ever saw Wes Kendall again, the asshole would get his and more. He'd already disappeared from work and his home.

Baird had checked.

"I'll assume you've already covered all the other bases?" Fenix asked.

"Checked all medical facilities I could find. Checked the prison records. Nothing." Baird decided he was done. The more this thing tried to pull him into a futile search that might consume him, the same way Dom's search for Maria had consumed him, the more Baird repeated to himself over and over, _I will not go crazy over this._

He'd survived too much to lose his sanity now.

"I have to go crash," he said abruptly, standing so fast the crate he'd been seated on tipped over. Leaving his half-empty bottle of shine whiskey on the table, he made a swift exit from the apartment, hauling his ruck over one shoulder. Even the never-ending staircases went by in a blur. He needed to get out of there and breathe.

Baird didn't know it at the time, but it would be his last visit to that apartment for a very long time.

* * *

Dom jumped off the back of a company truck, smacking the side in thanks before jogging up toward the school.

It was late afternoon. The sun was going down and classes had let out hours ago. A few kids hung around, sitting around on a planter in front of the building by the entrance. The planter had a small tree in it still that provided some shade, but the rest of the vegetation had long ago gone to seed, the weeds overgrowing the few remaining flowers. Dom noted two of the boys smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. They saw him eying them as he passed, and they only laughed amongst themselves, not caring if he saw.

The inside of the building wasn't any better. The hallway floor was smeared with tracked-in mud—there was no janitor—and many of the floor tiles were broken, leaving the long corridor looking like a stretch of pot-hole ridden asphalt. Trash littered every corner, collecting in piles along with the dust bunnies left behind by nearly two decades of disuse. The lockers were useless. Most of the doors hung at odd angles, broken by some looter's crowbar. The plumbing in the place was shot. The sharp smell of sewage wafted out of the bathrooms, probably from backed up toilets. Dom passed one wall with a fresh streak of bright red blood at approximately a pre-teen's head-level and he couldn't suppress a shudder.

How could a school remind him so much of the Slab? The acrid scent of lingering prepubescent body odor in the hallway, even combined with trash and sewage didn't quite equal the smell of rotting and burnt flesh, but nevertheless Dom couldn't help drawing parallels between the halls of this school and the lines of cell blocks he'd freed Marcus from years ago.

That was exactly the sort of thing that really made him wonder why he'd sent Carlo to school in a place like this. Whenever Dom asked, the kid always shrugged and said it didn't bother him. He grew up in worse and didn't understand why Dom worried so much. At first Dom had been hesitant to allow Carlo to keep his butterfly knife with him at all times, but he changed his mind when he actually visited this school.

At last reaching the principal's office, Dom pushed open the half-open door and found Carlo sitting in a chair across the desk from Mrs. Cottic.

"Sorry it took so long," Dom said. "It took some doing to get a ride over here on short notice."

Mrs. Cottic gave him a cold nod in greeting, and Dom took a seat next to Carlo. His son had a black eye. Fighting, again.

"What did you do now?" Dom hissed while taking his seat.

The boy shrugged like he didn't know, wearing his best _'I'm too cool to hate_' expression.

Dom hated getting called into the principal's office almost as much as Carlo did, and his son knew it. It was the third time in as many months Dom had been forced to negotiate such a visit and it wasn't getting any easier. Richtner didn't give a shit that he had a kid now, especially a teenage kid. When Dom told his supervisor about his situation the first time Carlo got in trouble, the guy acted like he was making it up.

Sure, Dom expected things to be rough. He was out of the swing of being a parent, and Carlo had never had a father, but he'd expected to make some progress by now. It had been six months and it still felt like they were at square one.

The first time the school called Dom at work, they'd caught Carlo hustling older kids at cards. Three weeks ago, they caught him selling his classmates individual slices of bread folded in half with a thin layer of peanut butter sandwiched within, making a profit off the terrible food served in the cafeteria. A surprisingly hefty profit, considering Carlo didn't even make the sandwiches himself. He provided the materials and the kids had to make their own while Carlo sat back and counted the money rolling in. He didn't even buy the bread and peanut butter. He stole both from home.

Dom could only imagine what his son had gotten up to this time. Earlier, when he'd received the call from the school, Marcus had taken one look at the livid expression on his face and offered to go in his stead.

Dom almost took his friend up on the offer.

"Carlos has decided to enter the business of protection," Mrs. Cottic began, her hands folded on the desk before her. "He has some of the younger children paying him out of their lunch money to defend them from other bullies." She said that last bit in such a way as to imply that Carlo was a bully as well. Dom didn't know his son as well as he'd like to, but he had discovered over the past six months that Carlo was not a bully. A manipulative cheat maybe, but not a bully. Dom bristled at the implication just as Carlo bristled every time someone called him 'Carlos.'

Before Dom could comment on his son's latest misadventures, Carlo's lightning fast tongue beat him to the punch. "Eh, better they give me some of their money than let those assholes steal it all and then beat them up on top of it." Carlo said this while slouched down in his chair, eyes carefully hooded. None of this bothered him one iota. Not the way it would've bothered Dom at that age. Carlo indicated his blackened eye, "You ask me, they get what they pay for. Only an idiot would do this shit for free."

Dom sighed, remembering back to Marcus's first day of attendance at public school. Marcus and Carlos were ten. That day Dom's older brother got into a fight with two bullies on Marcus's behalf, and instead of running, Marcus had thrown in with him. Marcus had been the sort of rich kid who didn't take things for granted. If Carlos had asked for compensation for fighting on Marcus's behalf, Marcus probably would've paid up. But then they never would've forged that incredible bond of brotherhood between them.

Dom had always imagined Bennie would've been that sort of boy. Not perfect, but with his heart in the right place. It was hard to imagine a kid of his, especially Carlos's namesake, could be so different from anyone Dom had ever been related to.

Mrs. Cottic's mouth twitched into an even deeper frown, if that were possible. "And that brings me to my second point. Several of Carlos's teachers have come to me, complaining about his behavior, his lack of interest in his school work and his _language_ in particular. Most telling of all is his disturbing lack of contrition when confronted. When this latest escapade was uncovered, instead of at least _acting_ashamed, Carlos instead offered to cut in his teacher on his profits. He offered her ten percent, I believe."

"She shoulda taken it. An' if she and the rest of them don't like how I do business, they can all suck my..."

Dom's hand come to rest on Carlo's forearm, giving a firm squeeze to silence the kid. For about the millionth time Dom sent up a brief prayer asking for patience, so he wouldn't strangle his son—or his son's principal.

Surprisingly, fate offered him a brief reprieve. A young man using a single crutch with one of his legs amputated just below the knee knocked on the door. He was the right age to be a new teacher.

"Mrs. Cottic," the man said, not taking the time to come into the office. "There was an incident outside that requires your attention. It's an emergency."

Placing her hands on the edge of the desk, Mrs. Cottic scooted out her chair and rose dramatically. It seemed everything she did required a bit of theater. Maybe she'd been an actress in her youth, before the war.

"I shall return shortly," she said before exiting the room, sweeping out and yet somehow still managing to seem like she was in no hurry.

"Carlo," Dom began once they were alone. "I can understand sticking up for younger kids. I can't understand making them pay for the service."

"That's because you a Gear," Carlo said calmly. "Always had enough of everything."

Dom almost rolled his eyes at that. Really? This arguement _again?_

"Yes, I realize that." Dom could hear the annoyance in his own voice and attempted to quash it before continuing. "But don't I give you everything you need? You have food. You have your own bed, in your own room. When I was your age I had to share my room with my brother. I didn't have a bedroom to myself until a few years ago."

Carlo snerked. "Seems like you didn't mind sharing with mami much. Coulda had your own room for a long time if you didn't knock her up at sixteen." Dom gave him an un-amused look and Carlo rolled his eyes, scowling. "You think I can just turn it off? This is how I lived, brah. These kids are stupid. They cowards. So let them get in line to hand me money. They make it _so_ _easy_."

The un-amused expression on Dom's face didn't become any less un-amused.

Carlo sighed. "Okay, listen. How about I cut you in, huh? You put a roof over my head, so I split it with you fifty-fifty. It's like you gettin' paid for everything you do for me."

"No. These kids are younger than you and you're taking advantage of them."

"Is that what you hung up on? Aw, come on, man. _She _said they were younger than me. We the same age, they just don't know how to fight. Most of them are bigger than me, too. Tell you what. I won't charge anyone younger than me, or girls. I'll take them on for free unless they got a big brother, then I'll charge him one and a half."

"No," Dom repeated, firmer this time.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Carlo looked disgusted. "You know, I'm really tryin' to do business with you here, but you ain't meeting me halfway. You the one always talking about compromising."

"When it comes to your integrity, it's my not my job to compromise. I'm your _dad_."

"Stop sayin' that!" Carlo hissed, sitting up suddenly and nearly leaping up from his chair, his dark eyes flashing with anger. The glare was so hot with fury, Dom almost expected Carlo to launch at his throat. "All it means is you want me to be just like you and I can't do it! Someone offers me cash, I'm gonna take it. And I'm not gonna get my ass beat on for free. You know, you ain't doin nobody in this school any favors if you make me stop. Teachers know this shit goes on. They don't even try to stop it!"

Flopping back hard in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, Carlo put on his darkest scowl and stared off into the distance straight ahead, ending the conversation and refusing to acknowledge Dom's presence any longer. They came to this same sort of impasse with increasing frequency.

Dom sat back in his own chair, taking a deep breath and doing his best to relax. He often struggled to be at ease with Carlo, and sometimes he wondered if that was half the problem. They both just needed to relax and settle down around each other. Quit the pissing contest, at the very least.

_He's definitely not a four-year-old._

Dom tried hard to keep Carlo and Bennie separate in his mind, two individuals with little to nothing in common. It was a difficult thing in no small part because he never had the opportunity to see Ben grow up, or to see Carlo as a young child. His heart wanted to connect the two broken strings to make a whole, but that did a disservice to both boys. For one thing, Carlo loathed being compared to his deceased brother. Dom didn't blame him. It was tough trying to step into the shoes of a ghost, especially where one's parents were concerned. Bennie died at the height of his innocence while Carlo had been forced to grow into a predatory being, kept alive by his intelligence and cunning. Worst of all that contrast wasn't lost on Carlo. He was incredibly perceptive.

Not that the kid seemed to mind what Dom thought of him, but Maria was another story. One of the few areas where Dom still held some leverage was his intimate knowledge of Carlo's mother. Over the past few months he'd discovered the boy desperately wanted to know everything about Maria. He wanted to understand why she'd left him. It was a little like watching a man dying of thirst drink salt water. The more knowledge Carlo gained about his mother, the more he wanted, even though nothing Dom revealed seemed to quench his thirst for longer than a moment.

Maria had cast their son aside, probably not even aware she'd done it. It didn't matter how much Dom wished to heal that wound, Carlo would always be damaged. Suddenly being wanted at thirteen by a father he hardly knew didn't make up for a lifetime of uncertainty and abandonment.

And maybe the kid was right. In this world, did it matter if Carlo got paid to fight for someone else? That's what soldiers did, right? As long as the kid's sense of fairness remained intact, what did it hurt? He wasn't taking payment like a mercenary to go on the offensive and start fights; his enterprise was entirely defensive. A paid body guard. Carlo's sense of honor might be slanted, but at least he still had some sort of personal code he followed.

The two of them sat in silence for a long time. So long that Dom got sick of waiting and finally stood up, stretching his arms over his head. The previous evening Marcus had gone a little nuts with the PT. He and Dom had done about a thousand push-ups each in tag-team tandem and Dom's triceps were still burning.

"Come on," Dom said. "It's a long walk home and it's getting dark."

Carlo didn't argue. However, he did shrug off the affectionate hair-ruffle Dom tried to give him. The kid wasn't generally fond of the increasingly familiar gesture, or of being touched in general, but he usually endured it.

With a weighted sigh, Dom followed Carlo out into the hallway, letting the kid lead the way past classrooms, many of which had no doors, and toward the exit.

Things weren't good between them. It was a slow tension, swirling beneath the surface most of the time and occasionally coming out in bursts of anger. It was slowly and painfully dawning on Dom that he might not be able to save his son. Carlo still couldn't read Common, and he didn't want to learn how. He had no interest in math other than the basic addition he needed to count his money. He still hadn't made any friends, a condition made even worse when Cole left to join up with his Thrashball team some months before. At times, Cole had been the only person in the house the kid seemed to even halfway let his guard down with.

Sometimes Carlo got pretty fed up with this life, with school and having a father who spent his entire life in the military and demanded respect and discipline at all times, and Dom suspected many of these con schemes were Carlo's way of rebelling. A way to bring some success and normalcy back into his life.

It would be so easy to let the kid do what he wanted, just to appease him so he wouldn't run away. Dom hoped Carlo continued to stay because deep down the kid did crave structure and a life off the street, but he had no way of knowing for sure.

What would he do if Carlo disappeared? It was hard enough when Chelsea went missing after she and Baird had their run-in with the MPs. If it hadn't been for Carlo, that loss would've devastated him. He'd made a promise to take care of that young woman, and in the end he'd failed her.

The loss still kept him up nights, right along with all the other horrible things that left him tossing and turning.

The scene outside the school stopped father and son dead in their tracks. When Dom entered the school he'd seen some boys sitting on the planter, goofing around and smoking. One of those boys was laid out on the concrete in a pool of blood, his eyes glassy and unblinking. He'd been full of life just twenty minutes ago.

MPs were taking another of the boys into custody, a child not much older than Carlo. Several teachers were gathered around, one seated on the planter, a slash wound on his stomach being tended to by Mrs. Cottic. He must've been injured during the effort to disarm the boy who'd stabbed his former friend.

"Oh, my God," Dom breathed, horror creeping in all around him. He reached instinctively for his son's shoulder, tugging him closer. Carlo didn't show it on his face, but he must've been shocked too. He allowed his father to attain a nearness the two rarely shared, standing side-by-side.

Kids shouldn't be doing this to each other. They were just children. Fist fights and cruel teasing Dom expected, but not this.

Carlo glanced up at him. "Ah, you look kinda pale, man," he commented. "Can't tell me you ain't used to this."

Shaking his head, Dom pressed on. He could _never_get used to this. "Come on," he said, pulling Carlo along, heading for home.

"Don't got my homework," Carlo reminded absently, as if he actually cared about leaving his homework behind.

Dom gave his son's shoulder a squeeze and kept walking, making a b-line out of there. "It doesn't matter. You're never going back to that school again."

"What, you think I can't handle myself with a punk like that? I would've cut 'em up."

Dom shuttered internally. He'd seen Carlo's skill with a Balisong. The kid was good, but most knife fights ended when your opponent's friend slipped cold steel into your back.

"Maybe so," Dom acknowledged, "but I said I'd give you everything you need. And you're not going to get an education worth a damn in a shithole like that."

* * *

"And that's why I decided to re-up with the COG," Dom finished. "I knew they'd throw me behind a desk, and I knew I'd hate it, but I needed to give my son a better life. I saw that kid lying there in front of the school, dead, and I panicked. That could've been Carlo."

The young woman sitting across the desk had long ago forgotten the pencil in her hand, so wrapped up in his story she'd neglected to take any notes. Her lips were just parted and her eyes were a bit wide. To be perfectly honest, this little mouse-haired girl reminded him of Chelsea, although she was a bit older and smaller.

Her name was Ms. Gussin and she likely had a back story very similar to Chelsea's. She'd probably started out as a medic or doctor's assistant, but since she had some years in when the war ended they shifted her over to the psychological side of things instead of giving her a boot out the door. Even in the COG enough 'incidents' with emotionally unstable soldiers had occurred to warrant semi-annual psychological exams.

This was Dom's first meeting with the Shrink on Fort Collier and he'd talked her ear off. For the past three hours he'd told her everything, every step of the story that had led him to her couch. He'd been her last client of the day, so there weren't any other appointments pressing in on his time and she hadn't given any indication that she wanted him to stop and save the rest for another day. Dark shadows had fallen over the room as the sun set and went down, and Dom's stomach growled to tell him it was dinner time.

If he was lucky, Carlo would be back from school, sitting in their quarters starting his homework. Although he rarely was lucky in that regard.

The Shrink still seemed a bit taken aback at his willingness to share, but at last she recovered herself. "So you never found Chelsea?" she asked.

Dom shook his head sadly. "No one's heard from her since she disappeared. If she was still alive, you'd think she would've gotten in contact with us by now."

"And what about the rest of your friends? Where are they now?"

"Well, Cole's in the middle of the Thrashball season. They're going to play a team from Vectes this week. Around the time Cole left for training, the COG Corps of Engineers offered Baird an opportunity to work on a classified project. I still don't know what he's working on, but he seemed pretty excited about it. As excited as Baird gets, anyway. He's probably lurking here on base somewhere, consumed by the project. I never see him in the mess, so whatever it is, he's fully absorbed."

"And Marcus?" she asked, having no idea her question would hit him like a sock to the gut.

Dom still remembered so clearly the conversation he'd had with Marcus. Dom had tried to explain after the fact why he'd gone and signed a four year contract with the COG without consulting his roommate and friend first. Being a soldier taught Dom to act quickly and decisively when he felt frozen by fear. And that's what he'd done. Afraid for his son's life at his present school, Dom had re-upped, the consequences be damned. He didn't consider what it might do to Marcus—what it would mean for their living arrangements and, more importantly, their friendship—until after he walked out of the recruiting office.

"Leaving Marcus was hard," Dom admitted. "Me and my brother always told Marcus he was one of us. Our brother. It took years to convince him. Marcus never feels like he belongs."

Marcus had said he understood, but Dom apologized over and over anyway. A guy like Marcus didn't have much capacity for empathizing with crazy and impulsive paternal tendencies and Dom hadn't been able to stop apologizing to him because he couldn't say what he'd really needed to say.

_I'm so fucking sorry I'm about to ditch you, man. All that stuff I said about you being family? Well, it turns out real family comes first._

Dom still felt like such an asshole. How could he abandon his best friend? Without even talking to him about it first?

_Oh, come on. Man up. You're not married to the guy._

"I kept trying to tell him how Carlo needed a good school, like the one on base, and how he'd get more attention and discipline here. And how I'd get to go home at a reasonable hour and help him with his homework. Marcus told me I didn't need to explain. That I should do whatever I needed to do. It seemed like it didn't bother him, but it's hard to tell with Marcus sometimes. It might actually not bother him, or he might just be battening down the hatches and not caring through pure will power."

The Shrink nodded her head, still caught the intoxicating haze of information overload. Like Chelsea, she'd probably felt like she was trying to squeeze blood from stones during her semi-annual exams of the Gears on base.

Not only did Dom openly share with her, holding nothing back, but he shocked her even further at the end of the examination when she advised him on his treatment options. The woman gingerly brought up the possibility of using medication to treat his PTSD, to help him sleep better at night, ward off nightmares and help stabilize his moods and help him deal with his grief. She clearly expected to get shot down, but Dom listened and promised to consider her recommendations.

Surprisingly enough, he really meant it. He'd failed Maria, but honoring her memory by remaining the most miserable son of a bitch alive didn't seem quite so appealing anymore. The real Maria probably would've wanted him to be happy, but the Maria he'd shaped in his mind over the past fifteen years was less forgiving. But even she couldn't find fault with his desire to be the best father he could be to their last remaining child.

Dom still didn't know if he could save his son, but Carlo might just save him. If medication and therapy would help with that, then he'd grit his teeth and do it.

"It was nice meeting you, Sergeant," the Shrink said when they both rose from their chairs at the end of the session. It was well past dark by then. "I'm looking forward to working with you."

"Good meeting you too, ma'am." Dom accepted the woman's firm handshake. He didn't even flinch at the use of his new title. After being a private for twenty years, the soldier in him was proud to finally have his stripes, even if it was just a formality. Paper-pushers didn't spend much time dropping privates for fifty up-downs or commanding squads of men. But maybe that was for the best. Dom honestly didn't know if he had it in him to be a leader.

During the walk back to the quarters he shared with Carlo in apartment-like barracks set aside for families, Dom mulled over his long-since abandoned ambitions to do those sorts of Sergeant-like duties. He used to lay awake at night next to Maria and tease her about all the wonderful things he'd buy her once he had a sergeant's pay in his pocket.

She'd teased him back, threatening to always answer the phone with a greeting of, 'Mrs. Sergeant Santiago speaking.'

Dom paused at his door, his eyes falling shut while he took a deep breath. He mentally ticked off the things he'd be willing to do to hear Maria pick up the phone and say those words, share this facade of an honor at his side. Some of the items that crossed his mind went beyond the bounds of civil human behavior.

Murder? Maybe. Depended on the person.

Rape? Never.

Cannibalism?

Dom shuttered, hoping he'd never find out if he was capable of such a thing. One thing was for sure. The war had shown him how desperate men could come together and fight for their lives as one. But it had also shown him the darkest parts of humanity.

Keying the lock and opening the door, Dom found the small family quarters dark and empty.

With a tired sigh, Dom flipped his keys onto the couch. On base it was harder for Carlo to slip out and move around undetected - he was already known to the MPs patrolling on base - but over the span of mere weeks the boy had learned the ins and outs of Fort Collier, moving undetected wherever he pleased. He often broke curfew, lying about his whereabouts when questioned - not that it was easy to nail him down and catch him in a lie. The kid was just too damn smart for that. Whenever Dom heard rumors about food pilfered from the kitchen on base or other small misdeeds, his heart immediately turned to ice and he wondered if his son had anything to do with it.

The phone on the wall rang, and Dom considered ignoring it. It was probably his staff sergeant calling to let him know he'd screwed up some minor detail on some senseless form.

With a snort, Dom shook his head. Who knew he'd become such a civilian while away from the COG? Up until his discharge, he never would've hesitated to pick up that phone immediately.

Dom picked up the smooth plastic receiver and cleared his throat, "Sergeant Santiago," he said, formally.

"Oh, hey! I'm glad I caught you." The caller was an unfamiliar woman. Younger than old, by the sound of her voice. Energetic, at the very least. "This is Jovon's aunt and I just wanted to make sure you knew the boys are over here at my quarters having a snack and studying."

"Studying," Dom repeated, unbelieving. If he'd had a window handy, he probably would've looked for the pigs flying outside. "Lady, are you sure you have the right number? Because Carlo _never_studies."

The woman chuckled, soft and low. "Yeah, I think I have the right number. To be honest, by now they're probably into Jovon's comic collection. I hope you don't mind. I know it's not exactly the epitome of literary excellence."

Dom blinked slowly. He probably shouldn't admit it to a perfect stranger, but he'd jump for joy if he could get Carlo to read articles in magazines filled with naked women: anything to get him _reading_. "No, that's fine. I'm just..." _He's reading. Carlo's actually reading?_ "I'm just really glad Carlo found a friend here so quickly." _A friend who studies.  
_  
Carlo finding a stable, responsible peer he could look up to was a dream come true for Dom. A miracle. The Holy Grail.

Well, assuming the kid wasn't just working an angle. Dom always had to watch out for that.

Dom rubbed at his forehead, a small smile shaping his lips. He had a feeling he'd just experienced the same thrill of relief his parents felt the day Carlos came home from school and told them he'd befriended Marcus. Shit, no wonder his mother and father had loved Marcus so much. Carlos never got outstanding grades, and before Marcus came along Dom remembered his mother fighting with his brother almost every school night, just trying to get him to do his homework. All that fighting came to an end because Carlos hated making Marcus feel self-conscious about being so smart, so he'd worked his butt off to get good grades - well, decent grades, anyway - even though he knew there was no college and no commission in his future. Dom had just sort of followed the pack in that regard, until his life took a major detour and he quit school.

But up until then and long after, Marcus's influence on the Santiago boys had been tangible and, in many ways, remarkable. Dom couldn't deny his first thought when Maria came to him at sixteen, tearful and frightened, had been 'What will Carlos and Marcus think of me if I don't man up and take this bull by the horns?'

Collapsing on the thin futon in the living area, Dom put his feet up on the coffee table—something he never let Carlo do—crossing his boots at the ankles while he reached over to turn off the lamp beside him. The light in the hallway still filtered into the living area, but Dom needed some darkness, some peace.

He sighed deep, resting his arms across the back of the couch and letting his eyelids fall shut.

Today may have brought him a small victory in his fight to raise Carlo into a good man, but only time would tell. It was so hard, trying to navigate fatherhood like this. In Thrashball terms, Dom felt like a third string quarterback coming into the game late in the fourth quarter and trying to pull off a miracle victory with absolutely no room for error on his part. Any little slip might send the whole thing crashing down, and he had to do it all alone. He hadn't even gotten a chance to practice with the team beforehand.

Feeling a depressing darkness start to slip in, Dom attempted to avert it, put it off the way the new Shrink had suggested that afternoon in session. He thought proactively—about the battle he had ahead of him trying to get Carlo to do his chores—cleaning the bathroom they shared, taking out the trash and, of course, washing the dishes. He thought about visiting Marcus over the weekend, and Chelsea's mother. Dom still visited Darlene Ferria, watching her illness progress at an alarming rate. She only had occasional moments of clarity now, and she'd never been as lucid as that first day he'd met her. It was almost as if she'd spent the last of her energy in passing the baton on to him; the care of her daughter—which, he'd royally screwed up.

Dom never told Mrs. Ferria her daughter was missing. At first he hoped Chelsea might yet return, but over time he started to doubt the woman would understand even if he did tell her. In her mind, Chelsea was still a little girl. Mrs. Ferria confided in Dom her worries about her youngest child and only daughter. Were Chelsea's brothers too rough with her? She really was smart enough to be an engineer—had some aptitude for mechanics—but all Chelsea wanted to do was hang out with the boys and drive supply trucks. She often neglected her studies, or attempted them while living out on the road.

It sometimes staggered Dom to think that during the war, children Carlo's age had performed jobs. He'd been aware of it at the time—he'd seen more than one kid trucker—but somehow it just hadn't sunk in. Before she ever picked up a text book, Chelsea had an entire career completely unrelated to the field she'd later pursued. She'd been just big enough to operate a pick-up at eight, and she'd gone from there, working nearly ten years in transport. Lots of kids had performed similar feats.

In odd moments, Chelsea's mother almost seemed to talk pure nonsense. She spoke of her son, Mike, working in the motor pool, and how she suspected he was operating a back door chop shop, building muscle cars right under the COG's nose. She'd once confided in Dom that she couldn't believe how much Chelsea had grown to look like "_that other girl, you know the one._ _Like two peas in a pod."_

Dom assumed she meant a friend Chelsea'd had during childhood.

Marcus had suggested more than once that it might be better if Dom stopped visiting. Mrs. Ferria probably wouldn't even notice. But Dom couldn't do that. He saw so much of himself and Maria in the woman. She'd been cut adrift, living off the bank account of a missing daughter and not even lucid enough to realize all her children were probably dead.

Making sure Chelsea's mom received proper care was the only way Dom had left to take care of the girl. He felt he owed it to her.

Dom opened his eyes when he heard Carlo's key in the lock. The boy strolled in, backpack slung over one shoulder like he was so cool.

"How's it, old man?" the kid asked, cocky as ever. He slung down his bag on the floor and made for the fridge, even though he'd just had a snack over at his friend's quarters. With a proper diet, the kid was growing a half inch a month. Fortunately the COG had an interest in seeing him grow. Ration tickets for teenage boys were more flexible than for girls—unless the girl in question was pregnant. That was a whole different ball game, even if she was fourteen. "You kill any Stranded pirates with that keyboard of yours today?"

All of a sudden, Dom acutely missed his old living arrangements. It had been really nice to live in a household with adults. He especially missed Marcus's stoic but steady presence. He'd given up all that wonderful grown-up company for what exactly? A grateful, dutiful son?

Hardly.

"Nope. Didn't get a chance to brain any Stranded. But I thought really hard about strangling a Staff Sergeant with my mouse cord."

Dom wondered how many parents had to deal with their son brightening noticeably whenever they admitted they were miserable at work. Then again, during the teenage years it was probably more common than he'd think.

Carlo slapped on his best 'devil may care' smile. "Eh, don't worry, brah. Tomorrow's a new day, right?"

All of a sudden Dom had a little more appreciation for Baird's urge to slap bright and happy people.

"I guess. Where've you been, anyway?"

"A friend's."

Carlo grabbed a left over sandwich from the fridge and then closed it, pausing to appraise the freezer door. One of Carlo's new teachers had suggested using refrigerator magnets to leave Carlo messages, to encourage him to read and respond with proper spelling, and she'd loaned them a set.

Dom had left a message that said, 'I'll pay you to clean your room.'

"A friend's, huh? What's your friend's name?" Dom asked, playing dumb.

"You know his name," Carlo said, still staring at the fridge. "His aunt called you. She's seen you around. Think maybe she likes you. She's hot. You wanna meet her?"

Dom snorted. "I think maybe it's time for you to do your homework."

"Man, you really gotta stop changing the subject when I try to get you laid. For my sake." Carlo said, taking the sandwich and heading for his room.

Dom just shook his head. At times Carlo was so protective of his mother's memory, yet he didn't seem to understand Dom's dedication to his marriage vows, even after his wife's death. The boy had a seriously convoluted view of relationships between men and women, and Dom laid awake some nights wondering how he'd ever get the kid straightened out.

"Homework?" Dom called after him.

"Done." Classic Carlo. So sure of himself, no matter his limitations.

"Can I check it?" Dom asked, skeptical.

"Do what you gotta do, brah." Carlo jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his backpack on the floor before disappearing into his room, swinging the door shut even before clicking on his light.

And then, Dom was alone again. He went over and grabbed Carlo's backpack with a sigh before heading for the fridge to grab a beer. If he had nothing better to do than sit around and correct an ungrateful brat's homework, then he'd at least have cold, amber company.

Dom paused before opening the fridge, noting his message was gone, replaced by another message.

'How much?' it read.

Dom snorted. Seriously, he was negotiating with his child via refrigerator magnets? He shook his head, marveling at the intriguing forms progress came in.

He spelled out an insanely low dollar amount, and then he went and sat down to correct all the spelling errors in Carlo's barely legible two paragraph essay, titled: _How a Bookie Calculate the Vig_. Which was more progress, because three months ago Carlo could only write a couple hundred Common words, although he had learned to read bits and pieces of some South Island dialects during his childhood and that seemed to speed the process. A few of the dialects had some similarities to Common.

Reading the short description of bookies and vigs, Dom could only shake his head. He had no idea if Carlo's teacher had a sense of humor, but at the very least the essay would probably be the most interesting one she'd read, assuming she could see past the grammatical mistakes.

After he finished correcting all the mistakes he could find—grammar wasn't his specialty, either—Dom once again found himself lost in thought.

He didn't regret the choice he'd made to rejoin the COG and move onto the base. Dom would do anything for his son, but he'd just expected by now their relationship would be _more_. More of everything. More rewarding, more like family. Perhaps in time it would come, but Carlo didn't confide in him. If anything, Carlo seemed to enjoy the game of slipping things past Dom. It amused the kid.

They'd built up a sense of mutual need over the past several months, but they hadn't formed a connection. Not like the bond Dom remembered having with Bennie and Sylvie. He'd been their daddy. With Carlo, Dom felt like a glorified meal ticket.

On nights like this, in the hours he had to fill between work and sleep, he missed the family he'd had. Marcus's stoic but steady presence. Cole's vibrancy and energy, even when he put those qualities toward expressing his distaste for the chores Dom insisted be done regularly. Even Baird got a nod. It'd been nice to have someone to call whenever something broke down. Dom was no mechanical slouch, but Baird spoke machine fluently. All of them were so solid. Guys he could count on, in a fight or on the job.

Even though he hadn't known Chelsea very long, and probably had only scratched the surface of her personality and flaws, Dom decided the thing he missed about the girl was the way she'd listened. She'd listened to all of them. It was part of her job, yes, but she'd taken it further. She got to know each of them, and she listened because she recognized each of them had useful things to say. Maybe because her family was dead or maybe Delta became surrogates for the brothers she lost to the war, but Chelsea wanted to get to know each of them.

Sometimes it frustrated him, thinking about how he'd felt more rewarded from helping out Chelsea than he felt taking in his own son. Then again, Chelsea had been quite a bit older. She'd been raised in the COG. Dom could image the life Chelsea had growing up, but he couldn't fathom Carlo's childhood.

Not surprising, considering he couldn't fathom the future for himself or his son. Where would they be in a year? In five? Where would any of Delta's former members be?

Dom didn't know for sure, but he hoped someday they'd all be together again, as a team or just as friends. Deep down, in the same place that refused to believe Maria was dead, Dom knew a time would come when they would all be together again.

He just couldn't imagine the circumstances that would bring them back together.

* * *

_Vectes, three years ago..._

Marcus woke up to moonlight. A light, salty breeze floated in through an open window next to his bed. Outside, soft waves crashed on the sandy beach.

So he'd made it back to Vectes, but this sure as hell wasn't the barracks.

"How do you feel?" her voice was soft now, concerned—a stark contrast to the foaming-at-the-mouth Lieutenant of a few hours ago, and absolutely nothing like the voice he usually had in his ear on the comm.

She didn't use the voice-on-the-radio tone much anymore. Ever since she convinced Hoffman to let her out into the field she'd started to sound more and more like her mother as she gained confidence on the job. When they were alone, she was a woman stripped bare and all the pretenses went away. All the arguments in public, the conflict; all of it went away when it was just the two of them.

It usually went away. Tonight, he couldn't let it go. She'd made him feel a lot of things over the years. She'd made him feel a wider range of emotions than anyone else ever had, but never before had contempt made that list. Until now.

"That was a very uncivilized thing you did today." He knew it sounded cold. Many things he said came out that way, whether he meant them to or not. He was like his father that way, and even more like his mother.

Sometimes he seemed cold when he didn't mean to be. But this time, he meant it.

She froze like he'd slapped her across the face. One of her boots scuffed the floor when she pulled herself up to her full sitting height. The coppery scent of blood hung on the air, mixing with the smell of spent gun powder and sweat, which meant she hadn't showered or changed out of her uniform. The light plate-armor she'd worn that day sat in the far corner, stacked neatly. She probably hadn't eaten, either. She'd sat next to his hospital bed and waited for him, ignoring her own needs so she wouldn't miss it when he woke up.

Looking back, that seemed to be the base equation for most of their dealings. Shit would go down, and she'd ride it out alone, waiting for him all the while.

"Do you think I wanted to do it?" she asked, sounding completely taken aback. "I didn't have a choice, Marcus. We all would've died on that boat. You were down, communications were down, I was losing men and we were almost out of ammunition. Those prisoners were the only thing keeping them from putting _another_ RPG into the side of the hull below the water line."

"And you used them."

"Yes, I did!" she hissed, leaning forward in her chair and taking a rare offensive with him. "_I_ used them to keep us all alive. I didn't order anyone else to do it. I made an executive decision and I pulled that trigger myself so no one else would have to live with it! Tell me, what choice did I have?"

"We would've found a way. _Any _other way."

"Maybe _you_ would've found another way. I'm sorry if I'm not as smart or resourceful as you. I'm sorry they won't fight for me like they fight for you. I'm sorry I don't have the luxury of hiding behind an enlistment."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he growled.

"It means I'm held accountable for every man I lose, for every mission I fail! You took the path of least responsibility so you'd never have to make those hard calls. Like the ones your father had to make."

That stopped him cold. "You don't know what you're talking about," he growled.

"Of course I don't." Anya rose to her feet. "You won't talk to me about it." She'd always been exceptionally tall for a woman, and in boots she towered over his bed. He'd half expected her to storm out, but that hadn't ever been her style.

Then again, none of this was really her style. She'd never been defensive with him, or said anything that might cut at him in any way. Too scared she might drive him away, she'd kept it all locked down tight. Or maybe before now she'd never felt worthy. With a few firefights under her belt, that front-line Gear pedestal seemed more in reach.

She stood over the cot, looking down at him. "We've all lost perspective," she said. "When you got hurt today, Dom almost left his post. Dominic Santiago. A former Commando. Any other officer would've formally reprimanded him."

And there it was. It was so cut and dried he couldn't believe he'd never seen it before. No matter what had been between them before, it had continued to exist relatively friction free because their professional lives never met directly. Bottom line, Anya was an officer, and he was an enlisted man.

"If you have an issue with one of my guys..." he growled, the same way he'd growl at any fresh-faced officer questioning Dom's actions in the field. Like they didn't know what the hell they were talking about, even if they were right. His men were his priority, always.

"I need you to let me do my job, Marcus," she interjected. "I have _nothing_ else. I've spent my entire career hiding in safe places while all the people I care about have died, including my mother. And yes, what I did today makes me sick. I knew you'd hate me for it, and she would've too."

"And you did it anyway," he drew out each word, grinding it in like a cruel bastard. This would eat at her forever, and he knew it.

"I did my job. I won't ever feel completely human again, but I did it. And you won't admit it, but you never wanted me out there. You think I don't belong out there, and maybe today I proved you're right. If you really don't like it, then do something about it. Give me something else to live for," she seemed to be hedging at something, but through the headache and grogginess, he didn't quite know what she was driving at.

"Like what?"

She paused, as if surprised she had to explain. "Ask me to give it up. You won't let me have both, so give me a choice."

Oh. That's what she wanted. After all these years, here came the ultimatum. Marcus's eyes fell shut. "So you'll resent me?" he asked, the fierce undercurrent of suppressed fury in his voice even taking him by surprise.

He opened his eyes just in time to watch Anya shake her head sadly, like he would never understand. "I'm not your mother, Marcus. I'm not like _my_ mother. Don't mistake perfectionism for love. It's just a job to me. I will carry it out to the very best of my ability, but if you..." her breath caught. "Marcus. If you asked me to marry you tonight, and give it up—I'd do it. I'd rip this patch off my arm and I'd pull Hoffman out of bed in his damn bathrobe to personally hand him my letter of resignation."

"You're seriously going to stand there and tell me you could just be someone's wife?" He regarded her with narrowed eyes and a level gaze. The way he'd said 'wife' made it sound derogatory. In the world Marcus grew up in, having a spouse wasn't much more than a trophy to set on the mantle. More like a political alliance than a personal relationship. At first it might seem illustrious and engaging, but eventually it got dusty and tarnished, out of sight and out of mind most of the time and resented more and more with age.

Anya's mother hadn't bothered with such trifles. Her career was her life. She'd kept the identity of Anya's father a closely guarded secret. Marcus's mother and father had married, but his memories of their marriage had long ago led him to the conclusion that they'd tied the knot not for love and a desire for family, but out of pure arrogance and a misplaced effort to seem normal. To hyper-successful people coming from old money, having everything was expected, regardless of the consequences.

"Not _somebody's _wife. _Yours_, Marcus," Anya said, her voice just above a whisper. "I may not have my mother's ambition, but I still feel her watching over my shoulder, appraising, expecting nothing short of perfection. So you should know it's no small thing for me to say I never would've felt like I'd sold myself short. I never would've felt cheated out of anything. I just wish I could go back to when I was twenty and tell myself I was right about you, and in fifteen years I'd still feel the same."

Marcus didn't speak. He couldn't even look at her. The words she'd said would've sounded fake and dramatic coming from anyone else, but he knew her. They'd never shared a moment like this before, and if he failed to act, he knew they probably never would again.

Eventually she must've realized he wasn't going to answer. Instead of pressing him, she retreated, moving to collect her plate armor from the corner of the room and holding it against her chest like a shield. It was such a simple thing. She could've been picking it up to go get cleaned up and fed, or just to keep anyone coming in the door from tripping over it, and yet it represented so much more. If what they'd had could be classified as a real relationship, then this was Anya cleaning out the metaphorical drawer she'd had at his place. If he even had a drawer to his name to offer to her, or the inclination to do so, she might as well be collecting her toothbrush, makeup and tampons and not letting the door hit her ass on the way out. She was the one walking, and yet somehow it felt like he was the one getting the boot.

During her childhood, Anya had often attended boarding schools for affluent young women while her mother was deployed. She'd been taught many things at those schools, but perhaps most telling skill she'd gleaned was the way she'd turn on the Look they'd taught her. It had to be hard to walk like a dignified lady in heavy combat boots, but Anya managed it. She pushed back her shoulders, held her head high and plastered on an expression of noble indifference. Marcus had seen her use that expression in the face of threats from superiors and in the heat of battle.

He'd never seen her use it while dealing with him, and for once she was dealing with him.

Anya swept grandly out into the hallway without saying a word, every inch an Amazon not to be trifled with. Not angry, not hurt. Just, regal. A Stroud woman, from the top of her blonde head to the soles of her boots. It didn't matter what she wore, or how dirty she got, or how badly some asshole she'd grown up with hurt her, she'd always be a lady first.

At the time, Marcus had no idea he wouldn't see her before he got shipped off Vectes for duty, and then later discharged. He had no idea he'd missed one opportunity too many.

* * *

_End of Part I_


	32. Part 2: Chapter 1

_AN: Here begins part 2, AKA the sequel._

* * *

Anya still remembered, with a sense of bittersweet mahogany, the days when she took a man holding a door open for her for granted. Before the war, it struck her as the mark of a gentleman and a gesture of respect for her status as a member of the fairer sex. Her mother might've crawled through muddy ditches and tossed out curses that could make a sailor blush, but through all of that Helena remained a lady born to a higher class and it was impossible not to notice. When the entire world remained embroiled in battle for centuries, even members of the elite went into the business of war. But Helena Stroud never let her daughter forget who they were, and the sort of woman Anya should strive to become.

After all, the Strouds were of mettle stronger and more resistant than common stock. Whether in political office, at the head of a company or on a battlefield, her ancestors had an alluring luster like gold and fortitude like titanium.

In short, where a Stroud led with grace, people followed willingly, gladly, with pride.

At times the Stroud mantel weighed heavily on Anya's mind. She was all that remained: a broken woman in her mid-thirties and under-achieving by her own standards, nevertheless in comparison to the heights of the hallowed halls of _The Stroud Legacy_.

_Wish you could see me now, Mom._

A young man had rushed forward to hold open the heavy glassy door of the Bender Fields home office building, only to wait while Anya made her slow, ambling approach. She used to take this sort of polite gesture for granted, even in the depths of war. Only now, when the fight was over for most of Sera, Anya wished he hadn't bothered. It was bad enough gimping around with a cane without making someone wait for her and watch her shuffle along like a pathetic geriatric.

With one hand on the rickety iron stair rail and the other clenched in a fist around the cane's smooth curved handle, she carefully negotiated the stairs, failing to keep a grimace off her face while doing so. She nodded her thanks to the young man in passing, doing her best to keep her head up and eyes forward, shoulders back. Dignity. Dignity and feminine grace had been ground into her since childhood. This was hard, and humiliating. Sometimes she just wanted to scream her frustration.

_Grit your teeth, smile, and endure with grace, my dear._

A few months ago, Anya would've sworn she'd never miss using crutches, but now she wasn't so sure. While bulkier and less mobile, at least with crutches there was a sense of temporary impairment. Eventually the inconvenience would end and she'd recover the use of her limbs. The cane might be more dignified, but it had an air of permanence.

It made her feel like an old woman; gnarled and broken.

Entering the lobby of Bender Fields, Anya took a moment to orient, her eyes barely catching on the broken plaster of the walls or the scuffed tile floor. As a little girl, her mother's status as a rising star in the COG had led Anya to visit palaces and attend parties at the residences of heads of state at her mother's side. She'd seen walls studded with precious gems and walked on floors made of the finest marble. None of those things existed in this world and the memories came back to her in unexpected moments, like the last glimmers of a past life, dull and colorless in spite of their former beauty.

The only moments from back then that stood out in the present were memories containing people. Her mother, her few close friends from the academy, and a handsome young man who'd often relegated himself to stand in the background of so many of her memories.

That young man's father had also been some big-shot in the military, so the two of them got trucked around to many of the same grueling social events as children and later as young adults.

He'd faded from her world right along with everyone else.

With a sigh, Anya settled on traversing the hallway on the left first. She needed to find the main office and there were no signs providing direction. If she was wrong, it would be a long, painful walk back to the lobby to take the right-hand passage.

_Well, at least I'm getting in my physical therapy like I promised._

It would be just her luck if the office wasn't on the first floor. Even though she'd arrived at Fort Collier days ago, Anya still hadn't physically recovered from the long journey from Vectes. The ache she felt in her hip and right leg went deep, all the way to the bone, and she might not have the strength to negotiate a staircase just yet.

Luck was with her. Anya spotted the office at the far end of the hallway she'd chosen and she made for it, increasing her speed just a bit and feeling the burn in her already taxed forearm muscles. She wasn't quite accustomed to using the cane yet, but she was looking forward to having at least one forearm become sleek with muscle, even if the rest of her continued to waste away from lack of use for months, years, maybe forever.

After all, it wasn't like she had anyone left in her life to impress.

* * *

Vernon Richtner was a weasel. Anya concluded that the second he opened his office door to admit her and she noted his smile turn a bit predatory at the sight of her. He was a piggish looking man, shorter than her with bright red cheeks and a balding head, a beer gut and a pushed-in nose. His gaze held no pity when he scrutinized the cane and her limp, but the fact wasn't exactly comforting. Perhaps he thought she'd be more receptive to advances because of her injury.

Anya had run into his type before. Men who thought she'd gratefully accept any offer just because her body had sustained a bit of damage. But she'd been raised to know her worth, and know it she did. Even beat to hell, Anya knew she was impressive, and it had nothing to do with her looks. Most men who didn't know her personally eventually learned there was an officer behind the pretty face.

"Ms. Stroud," Vernon began once seated behind his desk, his voice smoother than snake oil.

"Lieutenant," Anya interrupted, using her cane to gingerly lower her butt into the open chair across the desk from Vernon Richtner.

"Lieutenant," he corrected, nervously tugging at his collar. Ironically, the her rank carried weight because it meant nothing to him. He had no concept of how odd it was for someone her age to remain a junior officer. "I'm sure you're aware our company has the highest regard for the COG armed forces and we've always been very cooperative when asked to disclose our records."

"I'm aware many of those records have never been verified," Anya answered coolly. To be perfectly honest, she wanted to make this audit as fast and painless as possible. Bender Fields undoubtedly had secrets, but corporate lawlessness was hardly new and the COG didn't have the resources to really crack down on it just yet. Her job was to make sure whatever did go on under the table wasn't too terribly heinous.

This was the first audit Anya had been ordered to perform in the role she'd taken on after her 'recovery.' Raynes thought it would be a good first outing for her. Situated in a developed urban setting, Bender's headquarters was much easier to reach than most companies these days. There were several modes of transportation available in a larger city like this one.

"And, of course, we are happy to give you full access to those records," Vernon assured her. "I'll have my assistant pull up all the hard copies from storage tonight."

"I will also need to tour your active job sites, and any former sites with inadequate documentation," Anya informed him, still calm and collected, both her hands folded on the handle of her cane in front of her. Shoulders relaxed, but not slumped; back straight. A book could've balanced on top of her head.

"Of course," Richtner promised. He was sweating now, and still occasionally fussing with his collar. "Will you need anything else during your...er...stay? When I received the communication from Major Raynes about your upcoming visit, I was under the impression you would be given accommodations on Fort Collier."

Anya let him stew for a long moment, staring him down while affecting a Look of stony, high-class indifference she'd learned in her boarding school days. On her best day she could make bawdy NCOs sweat with that Look, and Richtner had absolutely nothing on the most timid of COG sergeants.

When it became clear he wouldn't start babbling out of pure nerves, Anya allowed herself a dignified, but bored, sigh. She could still do the Jacinto Academy for Fine Young Ladies proud with her haughty act.

"Well, I suppose that's a start. I've been assigned to living quarters on Fort Collier and I'll want to get started with those records bright and early. Oh-six-hundred hours all right with you, Mr. Richtner?" The time she started didn't really matter, but knowing he'd be cursing her every single morning he had to get up to meet her at Bender's front door for the next four weeks or more made it worth her while.

"Yes, of course." His smile was forced now.

Using the cane and the edge of the desk, Anya levered up onto her feet. Richtner didn't rise. If he'd had any serious thoughts about attempting seduction, he'd already surrendered in his haste to get her out of his office.

"Until tomorrow then," Anya said in parting, a cool smile on her lips.

Richtner acknowledged with a short wave.

Sometimes it was nice to know she still had it, especially when she'd spent the bulk of the past several months laying on her back and wondering if she'd ever have 'it' again. Half the time she still felt like she was reeling from the shock of her injuries. Just when she'd started to feel comfortable with her contributions to the war effort, started to think maybe she'd actually atone for sitting out so many battles, just when she started to feel the weight of her mother's legacy start to lighten on her shoulders, it all got taken away.

She'd never like this new job, but she couldn't go back to manning a radio—listening to the action from a distance—and at least doing audits of private sector corporations for the COG occasionally allowed her to nail some civilian asshole like Vernon Richtner to the wall by the nut-sack. That was something, right?

_Note to self. Try not to become a bitter, crippled old hag._

A slight, self-amused smile tugged at the corner of her lips when Anya reached out to pull open the heavy steel door leading out of the office. While maneuvering to step outside she ran into someone much larger than her in the doorway. She only got bumped a little, but it was enough. Anya let out a short grunt when blinding pain exploded from her hip and traveled around to her lower back and down her femur. Her arms weren't strong enough yet to keep her upright when her leg wouldn't take weight, and she would've crumpled to the floor if she hadn't been caught by a pair of large, muscular arms.

Grabbing a fistful of the man's coat with her free hand, Anya grit her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, remaining perfectly silent. She couldn't let her image of strength crumble in front of Richtner. If that asshole sensed any weakness she'd never get anywhere with him.

Forcing her lungs to accept a deep breath, Anya opened her eyes and looked up at...at...Marcus? Her jaw dropped and she vaguely heard her cane clatter against the floor tiles. It must've slipped away when her grasp went slack.

His glacier blue eyes widened in shock upon recognizing her. She should've guessed what the first word out of his mouth would be. Not 'Anya!', not 'hello', not 'excuse me', not 'are you all right?'

"Shit," he said.

Even in her stunned state, she should've guessed it. Marcus Fenix _never_ changed.

"Excuse me," Anya finally managed in a clinical tone. She could feel Vernon's eyes on her, and something deep inside her decided it would be best if Mr. Richtner was not privy to her history with his...um...employee?

What the hell was Marcus doing here?

_Waiting to run into you, just as some higher power planned. They probably didn't plan it quite so literally, but they planned this nonetheless._

A woman with less discipline over her features would've felt her cheeks burning hot at that moment, but Anya locked down all feeling. After all, she'd had plenty of practice pretending she harbored no unprofessional feelings for this man. The Pull between them had always been there, but except for the two or three years leading up to Marcus's imprisonment, they'd both done their best to pretend otherwise. Even when they had given in, it had been unofficial. Completely under the radar.

Anya started to bend, starting the painful process of collecting her cane from the floor. She would've liked to let go of Marcus's jacket, but she couldn't. Without his supportive arm around her waist she probably would've lost her balance. Her hip still throbbed, and the feeling was just starting to come back into her leg, a painful pins-and-needles sensation from the arch of her foot all the way up to her thigh.

Before she got very far, Marcus leaned down and retrieved the cane for her, their fingers brushing when she reclaimed it from him. She squeezed the handle in a tight, white-knuckled fist, as if it might try to slip away from her again.

"Can you stand on your own?" he asked, entirely unreadable.

She nodded curtly, even though she wasn't really sure yet.

His hand reluctantly retreated from the small of her back, almost like he didn't quite believe her. Then again, he'd never been good about letting her stand on her own two feet.

Even after it became clear she wouldn't fall, he remained square in her path, looking down at her.

Anya took a deep breath, and she could smell him. It surprised her to realize she could tell he'd rediscovered the brand of deodorant he used to wear as a young man. It was a warm, spicy scent and it shocked her to realize she remembered it so intimately. No one had used anything but COG issued products for years and she wondered where he'd found brand name sanitary supplies.

Just seconds before his continued presence directly in front of her would've counted as lingering, he slid around her, careful not to jostle her again.

"We need to talk," he growled in Richtner's direction, suddenly every inch a grizzled, pissed-off former sergeant, piece of work, ex-convict, whatever.

Anya resisted the urge to peer at him over her shoulder, shuffling slowly and carefully into the hallway.

The second her ass cleared the doorway, Marcus slammed it shut behind her, removing the voices inside the office from her hearing with a sharp 'bang.'

On her own at last, Anya sighed.

Once again she'd finally, finally come to accept that she would _never_ again see Marcus Fenix in her entire life, and then he'd fallen out of the sky like a bomb and made a direct hit; right on top of her head.

She could still feel the lingering ghost of his touch, where his arm had gone around her waist and his hands had gripped her. Over the course of a lifetime he'd become a part of her, and she'd had to work that part out from under her skin more than a dozen times and it never got any easier. It took months. Months of senseless longing, impending depression, misery. No matter how her brain scolded and tried to make sense of it, no matter how rigorously she busied herself with her own career, her heart refused to be persuaded by logic. Every time they separated, she felt a deep ache in her chest and it ached and bled until it couldn't any more, and then she felt a different sort of pain: numbness. Anya had determined there was nothing she could do to change how she felt short of finding another, a replacement. She'd sure looked, but she'd just never felt that spark with anyone else. If she could find another and love him a fraction as much, and have him love her back, she'd die a happy woman.

The first time she'd laid eyes on Marcus when they were children, something lit up inside her, warming her inside and out. Anya had always loved him. She would always love him, in spite of common sense and her better judgment. After all, he was only a man.

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_AN: And this concludes Part II: Chapter 1. What'd you think? Decent start to part 2? Needs work? I'd love to see some discussion. Even just a line or two of 'I really liked this...' or 'This could use some work...' or 'This doesn't make sense...' Every time I post a chapter on this story I go into my email hoping for like ten reviews. If you guys could make that happen it would be totally awesome;) I promise I'll do my best to earn it. Two chapters in a week is pretty good, right? Whether you think this story is great or you think it could use a self-help manual, I promise I CAN make it better, but only if you help me do it. Here's a place to start. How do you like this version of Anya? I'm trying to build a character with some insecurities like we see in the novels, but with a little more backbone. I'm also attempting to figure out the very confusing relationship between Marcus and Anya, and why they've been stuck on each other so long, and present it in a way that makes more sense than canon currently does. Whether you have comments relating to my story or canon on these topics, I'd love to hear about it and discuss :D  
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	33. Part 2: Chapter 2

_AN: Thanks so much for all the great feedback on the last chapter. It's really inspired me to get moving on this story. I got this chapter done pretty quick and two more in the works. Thanks so much for the great support :D Just want to say thanks to my beta, wriittenrhythm. Definitely check out her Gears story, A Father's Love. I'm beta-ing it for her and it's going to be a good;) Check it out and leave her a review.  
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Clay's boss, a heavy-set strawberry-blonde man in his mid-forties named Erek Karver, always commented on how lucky the team was to find a driver like Charlie P.

The only thing more rare in post-war Sera than a privately owned big rig eighteen wheeler, was a privately employed driver with the skill to handle a big rig eighteen wheeler through all the geographical challenges presented by the neglected freeways connecting the small and distant clusters of remaining civilization. Unlike the infantry and other MOS's, the COG kept a tight grip on career drivers, and even if a guy on the outside was willing to learn to make a living, like Clay and his brother Dan were, the opportunities just weren't there.

Six months ago, the team had a different driver. A drunk and formerly Stranded man named Phillip. Phillip lasted a hell of a lot longer than most of the drivers they'd gone through over the past five years, but a couple months in he managed to drive Karver's eighteen wheeler into a shallow ditch alongside a narrow dirt road, and he couldn't get it out again.

When the rest of them pulled up in the two APCs and the Humvee they used to convoy the truck, they found the cab of the rig empty. Phillip hadn't even stuck around for his last pay check. He'd just wandered off, leaving behind a dirty cab that smelled like cigarettes and stale whiskey, and dropping the rest of the team upstream on shit creek.

After locking down the rig, they'd gone on ahead, stopping in the next town on the route. Just like every new outpost, the town had a tavern, and for about an hour their team sat around a table in the back and drowned their sorrows.

After a few beers and some brooding, Karver suddenly shot to his feet, climbed up on his chair and issued a challenge to every man sitting in that bar.

"I've got a contract with the COG to deliver one tractor trailer of machine parts to the docks at Barber by midnight tomorrow. My rig's hung up in a ditch right now, and if I don't make that deadline I get paid half. If there's a man here who can get my wheels rolling and back that truck up to the Barber docks by midnight tomorrow, I'll give him a fifty percent cut on this job, and guarantee him a job for the rest of the year if he chooses to take it."

Of course, that announcement got the entire place clamoring. From having no prospects to having a dozen, Karver raised a hand to quiet down the crowd.

"Before you go volunteering, know this. The position is open because I broke the scrawny neck of the bastard who ran my truck off the road."

The entire place went silent. Every bar patron not with their team examined the five of them closely. Their party contained four armed men, three of which were former Gears, and one young woman; a beautiful, black-haired teenage girl named Tina Karver with a dazzling shy smile and the kind of dark eyes a man could get lost in.

Fitz scowled at all of the onlookers, and they didn't know he scowled at everyone. Dan didn't care an iota one way or another so long as he could drink his beer in peace, and that 'I don't give a damn' attitude radiated right off him; but it didn't completely dampen the aura of danger surrounding him. Dan had a Commando knife on his belt, and he'd earned it legitimately. Even Karver, a few years past his hay-day, loomed large over the gathering in the bar the same way his tall, axe-wielding, golden-haired ancestors had. The few grays mixed in with his golden stubble didn't make him look old, just distinguished. Evidence that he'd had many years to practice bashing heads in for a long time, so you'd better stay the hell out of his way.

And then there was Clay. Even if Clay had been sitting at the table alone and beaming at all comers like a long-lost friend, he still would've given any man pause. At six-five, he was a solid inch taller than the Cole Train, and broader, with heavy shoulders and a trim waist. In his late twenties, Clay represented the dazzling heights to which male physical perfection should aspire. In spite of all that muscle, he was lightning fast, and absolute hell in a fight. Especially a fight in a confined space, like a bar. He'd left the COG two years ago when his older brother Daniel turned thirty and received discharge papers, but Clay still carried a heavy sawed-off double barreled shotgun, letting it hang by his side on a strap.

A silence spread over the bar. Whether they believed him or not, they all knew Karver meant business. Most of these men were Stranded. Nomads traveling from place to place, working in fields or at other odd jobs, hitching rides with truckers or on the slowly rebuilding rail system. Their primary goal in life was to survive one day at a time, and Karver's team looked like a rough bunch.

The silence drew out, and for a moment Clay thought they wouldn't find an answer to their problem so easily. Then the silence was broken when a young man in a brown leather bomber jacket let his freshly drained beer mug bang down on the bar, slapping down a few coins beside it to even up his account.

"I'll take the job," he said in a low, quiet voice while sliding off the barstool.

The kid had a small ruck slung over one shoulder, an old gnasher shotty slung over the other, a pair of dark shades hanging from his collar and a big blue and white bandanna on his head in the style made famous by Marcus Fenix. With his head covered it was difficult to determine his exact age, but he looked very young. Barely out of his teens, if that. Then again, his gaunt figure might be aging him unfairly. There wasn't an ounce of baby fat on him; his cheekbones were sharp enough to cut bread. The kid had definitely been out on the road for a while, and he'd spent some time hungry, but something about the way he carried himself, keeping his head up and making calm but direct eye contact, screamed 'home grown COG' to Clay.

The kid strode over to them, wearing black COG issue boots, kacky cargo pants and a neutral expression on his face. Karver hopped down off his chair, and Tina and Fitz both got to their feet to meet him, leaving Clay and Daniel seated with their drinks.

The kid was tall next to Tina (Clay noticed she smiled brightly at the boy), but short when compared to the rest of them. Clay estimated the new-comer couldn't be much more than five foot seven, maybe a little less.

Fitz scoffed at the young man, very deliberately crossing his arms over his chest in a dismissive gesture. "Get out of here, boy," he drawled. "You couldn't even reach the pedals."

The kid didn't pay Fitz any mind, he didn't pay Tina's obvious interest any mind either. He looked straight at Karver, waiting patiently for the boss to make up his mind.

Karver appraised the boy for a long time. "You ever shave?" he finally asked, sounding doubtful about taking on such a youthful driver. How much experience could he have, after all?

Unflappable, the kid said, "Sure. Want me to show you? I got a razor in my pack."

Casually placing one fist over his mouth, Clay hid a small smirk of amusement. He exchanged a glance with Dan, and he could tell his older brother had the same thought. Even if the kid couldn't drive, he'd be interesting to ride with.

Karver snuffed at the boy's response. "You got a name?"

"Charlie." Instant, and succinct.

"Charlie what?" Fitz sneered, obviously unhappy this young guy might get taken on against his better judgment. Sometimes Fitz conveniently forgot he wasn't the boss.

"Charlie Phoenix, judging by the head-gear," Karver said, poking the kid in the shoulder with one meaty finger. Charlie didn't even bat an eye at the obvious disrespect, but he didn't step back either. The kid held his ground. "You in the Marcus Fenix fan club or something?"

"Ain't he a deserter?" Charlie asked, voice still level and smooth.

"Are you a deserter?" Fitz asked.

Clay and Dan exchanged another pointed look. Even if the kid had run from his enlistment with his nuts in a sling, why the hell would Fitz care? Fitz never served. He'd been a civilian until Jacinto went down, and then Stranded until the end of the war. He claimed he'd had to take care of his ailing mother. If Fitz had a mother, then she'd raised a real piece of work.

"I was honorably discharged."

"Why?" Fitz pressed.

An eye roll passed between the two Carmine brothers.

"Medical reasons," the kid explained. For a young man, he displayed unusual aplomb in the face of criticism. "I was diagnosed with a potentially communicable, non-life-threatening viral infection. And of course, these days an STD counts as grounds for discharge."

Very put out because he couldn't corner the kid, or at least make him sweat, Fitz scowled, opening his mouth to ask yet another invasive question, but Charlie beat him to the punch.

"Tell you what, I'll haul down my pants for show-and-tell later. If you want to get that truck rolling before sunset, we should get moving."

Fit to be tied, Fitz stepped forward, looking like he might tear Charlie limb from limb. But then Karver's arm shot out, blocking his path.

Karver had plenty of flaws-he liked his shine whiskey a little too much, he smoked, and to some degree his daughter had him completely wrapped around her finger-but he knew good business sense when he heard it. Time was money, and the clock was ticking. "We'll give you a shot," he said. "I sure hope I don't regret this."

As it turned out, he didn't. They moved the two APC and the Humvee back down the road to the ditch, and Charlie scrambled up into the cab of the truck like a monkey in a tree. Clay and Dan hooked up the larger of the two APCs to the front of the truck with a chain, and since Dan had the most mechanical aptitude out of the group, and the most patience, he drove the APC, using a battery powered CB radio to talk back and forth with Charlie.

The kid delivered. He started up the rig and got her running nice and smooth before throttling her down, making the big diesel engine chug when she started her slow climb out of the ditch, making progress in spite of the deep ruts Phillip had cut into the mud trying to do the same thing several hours earlier before he took off on foot.

Charlie didn't do anything special. He just took his time, letting the APC's slow, constant pull help him navigate out of the ditch, all the while keeping in constant contact with Dan over the CB so their effort remained coordinated. Twenty minutes later all eighteen wheels were on the road once more, and a quick inspection of the truck and its contents showed no lasting harm.

They made it into Barber the next afternoon, hours ahead of schedule. With a professional driver behind the wheel, their team quickly became known as the best private transporter in the area, and while some of that success could be attributed to Karver's reputation as an honest business man, and the excessive muscle in their small fleet, a lot of it rode on the driving skill of their affectionately nicknamed Charlie P, formerly a kid truck driver for the COG. At least, that's where Charlie claimed his experience came from.

There were many kid truckers during the war, and many times that experience didn't make it onto the official books or a kid's service record when they formally joined the COG. So either the COG made a real mistake when they kicked Charlie out, overlooking the valuable skill he'd picked up in his younger years, or Charlie was very clever. Even if Karver wanted to check out Charlie's driving credentials, it would've been virtually impossible to find out if he'd driven as a kid or not.

But transport was only half of Karver's business. There was no shortage of things that needed to be transported, but because they weren't officially affiliated with the COG, and thus often out of the loop, sometimes they experienced some lag in finding out about new jobs. Sometimes their team waited a week or more to hear about a new contract and ended up bumming around in a more heavily populated area for a week or more, usually a coastal city up in the north where trade with Vectes was frequent.

For a while Karver had struggled to fill that down time, until he started hanging around the local jails. For the most part, MPs still ran things, but there were some local authorities in larger cities, and a crap ton of bondsmen. Lawlessness came with territory, and there were plenty of men out to profit from it. Many bondsmen needed good bounty hunters, and Karver's team was more than equipped for the task. So whenever they had a few days to kill, odds were good they'd go out hunting for local thugs and drug dealers, thieves and murderers.

Owning a duel trucking/bounty hunting outfit did Karver a lot of favors. It kept his guys sharp and gave them something to look forward to, it brought in extra money to keep the business afloat and all of their pockets lined, and it kept them from going out to the bars and finding trouble after spending days cooped up on the road.

Clay and Dan still had their COG plate armor, and they'd spray-painted both sets black so they wouldn't be mistaken for soldiers. It always felt good to put on the old gear and go out hunting for some lowlife.

"Glad you decided to come out with us, Chuck," Clay said, a cheesy smile on his face. He had his double-barreled break action resting in the crook of one arm while he walked beside Dan and Charlie down a crowded city street in a large costal city just forty klicks south of Barber.

It was well after dark, but the nightlife in this part of town was booming. Bars, clubs, prostitutes, dealers and even a few fast cars all passed by at one time or another during the trio's leisurely stroll down the sidewalk.

"My only other choice was to stay at the motel with Tina," Charlie reminded, but he didn't sound put out over his lack of options. The kid needed a chance to stretch his legs just as much as the rest of them.

Besides, Karver had them out hunting some gearhead who got busted running a chop shop downtown and then jumped bail. What better way to spend an evening?

Charlie had on the same leather jacket he'd been wearing when they first found him in that bar, the same blue bandanna on his head and the same shotgun hanging from his shoulder on a strap. The jacket hung loose on him, obviously made for a bigger man. Charlie wasn't much of a talker. For the most part he kept to himself and didn't add much to a conversation. Fitz didn't think the kid was very bright, but Clay noticed the young man always listened, and all but slept with one eye open.

Wherever he came from, honorable discharge or not, Charlie was running from something. Why else would he always keep his weapon close and maintain an overactive state of alertness? Something haunted him, and Clay liked to speculate on what it might be. He liked intrigue. It kept life interesting.

On the other hand, maybe the kid just couldn't bring himself to trust them. If Clay couldn't thump Fitz to death with one hand, and didn't have Dan around to watch his back, he'd probably spend more time worrying about the 'formerly' Stranded man. Fitz didn't hold loyalty to anyone but himself, and he'd made it pretty clear he didn't like their new driver much. Charlie got paid more than anyone but Karver, and the kid made Fitz look bad. It was a perfect recipe for bad blood.

"Tina'd probably only bite if you asked her to," Dan teased, nudging Charlie with one elbow. Dan had his Lancer at a down-and-ready position and his usual cowboy hat on, even though it was night and there was no sun to keep off his deeply tanned face. "A young buck like you should be glad for the attention."

Charlie scoffed, blushing a little. "That girl's a predator," he said, and it was true.

Tina was a nice girl, but when she wanted something she went at it like a shark after blood, and all three of them knew it. She'd had her sights set on Charlie ever since the kid signed on, and she pursued him with gusto. Thankfully, Charlie wasn't dumb, and neither was Tina's father. Erek Karver went out of his way to make sure Tina never got a chance to corner their driver.

"I'd do her," Clay decided after weighing the pros and cons. The girl was over eighteen, and she was beautiful. He'd entertained more than one daydream about Tina and her various parts. Her perky butt was his favorite. The girl filled out a pair of cargos just fine, and she wasn't light up top either.

Charlie ducked just in time to avoid getting hit when Dan reached over to smack Clay across the back of the head. It hurt. Dan had a great deal of experience making Clay's brain bounce inside his skull. Dan had always been harder on Clay than their younger brothers. Ben and Anthony had gone through puberty after the implementation of food rationing, and never got as physically solid as their two older siblings.

In spite of the headache he'd have the rest of the night, Clay laughed, rubbing at his skull. Dan was _not _laughing.

"You lay a finger on that girl and I'll kill you, Clayton." Dan was adamant on this point "She's not worth getting fired over. Remember what we did before this job? I don't ever want to work on a road crew again. You have your fun with someone else's daughter. Someone who's not our boss."

Clay just smiled bigger. He might be a dog, but he was a well-trained dog. When Dan said 'Heel, boy,' Clay almost always obeyed. Following Dan's lead had kept him alive this long. But that didn't mean he couldn't push some buttons. Clay enjoyed pushing buttons.

"Like you wouldn't fall for it if she came at you all doe-eyed and sweet, Danny?"

"Nope. Because I'm not an idgit who thinks with my dick. There'll always be other girls."

"Not nearly enough," Clay commented dryly. Clay opposed the breeding farms. In his opinion, they stunted the supply of single women walking around, and that was an absolute travesty**.**

"You can always sign up for stud service," Dan reminded. They'd had this conversation several times before. "I'm sure they'd love to ship you around to all the farms."

Clay made a negatory sound. "I hear most places use artificial insemination these days. It's cheaper to hand a guy a cup and some cash than to keep him on and feed him."

Dan smirked, causing his sun-darkened skin to lightly crease at the corners of his mouth. Dan was in his early thirties and his age was just starting to show in his features. He even had one or two gray hairs mixed in with the wavy, raven black mane he kept tied back in a low pony-tail. His dark features were a stark contrast to Clay's light brown hair and light olive complexion.

"Oh, I'm sure they'd make an exception for you, Clayton. How could they resist such an enticing specimen?"

"Where are we expecting to find this guy?" Charlie interrupted. They'd been walking for a while, leaving the Humvee parked at the motel and hiking downtown on foot. Clay and Dan were both outfitted in full plate armor, but Charlie only wore civies. Even though he had some money in his pocket, the kid hadn't acquired many new clothes yet.

"Karver's with the guy's old lady now," Dan said. "He called me before we left, said we'd have a decent chance to catch him at his dealer's. The guy's name is Issac Stack. Black male, approximately 6'1", two hundred pounds, has a blue tattoo on his neck."

"A blue tattoo of what?" Clay asked. He really didn't have to be such a pain in his brother's ass, but sometimes he couldn't help himself.

"How the hell am I supposed to know? The poster Karver gave me didn't say. The description said a blue tattoo."

"Seems like you know everything, so I figured you'd know."

"Well, I don't, Smartass. I guess you'll find out when you see him. Now hurry up, we're meeting Fitz at the entrance."

"At the entrance of what? And where the hell has that asshole been all night? We walked across town to get here, and he's going to meet us there?"

Dan shrugged casually, giving Clay a _don't start with me_ look out of the corner of his eye. "Do you really want to know what Fitz gets up to in his off hours? I sure don't."

As it turned out, they met Fitz at the entrance of a run-down, five story building in the red light district. It used to be a hotel, but it was hard to tell. The beige exterior walls had long since overgrown with ivy and become dingy after years of getting sandblasted by dust first two stories were reserved for working girls. The madam of the house sat at the hotel bar at the bottom of the grand central staircase and offered to make all their dreams come true. Of course, Dan insisted they forgo pleasure in the interest of business, and up the staircase they went.

The third floor and above were set up for family housing, and judging by the number of people spilling out of into the hallways even at such a late hour-children, grandparents, young mothers and groups of men standing around talking, gambling, smoking-they were probably packing multiple families into each hotel room. Judging by the popularity of this place, in spite of the seedy location, it must have certain amenities. Running water, heat in the winter, things like that.

"Fourth floor," Dan said as they climbed the stairwell. "Room 4-8-7."

"What the hell are you doing here, anyway?" Fitz asked Charlie. "Shouldn't you be at home with the other chick?"

Charlie didn't rise to the bait, retaining a grim but determined face while climbing the stairs, but Dan whipped around on Fitz when he heard the comment.

On the road, Fitz occasionally filled in as Karver's second because he supposedly had some business experience. But in the field, Daniel ruled the roost. Clay's god-like musculature was a family anomaly, but at 6'2", and approaching two hundred pounds, Dan was formidable. He had wiry strength and advanced Commando training he applied with pinpoint precision. He was the only Carmine son who'd gone to boot camp before E-Day and received a full dose of training.

"If you weren't so busy making an ass of yourself, you might be glad to have another armed man at your back," Dan growled low.

"Do you even know if he can use that thing?" Fitz asked, disgusted. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Charlie, and more specifically, at the gnasher Charlie carried. None of them had ever seen the kid use it, but it remained with him always, almost like a part of him.

Dan shrugged. "I don't honestly know, but I'm willing to bet if anyone catches friendly buckshot in the ass, it'll be you."

Not finding any sympathetic ears around him, Fitz thankfully shut his mouth and they went forward in silence. At the top of the stairs, Dan pushed open the fire door and took point, weapon low but ready and Clay just flanking. Fitz and Charlie brought up the rear of their motley squad.

The first thing Clay noticed was the heat. It was a warm evening, but with all the windows open in all the rooms on both sides of the main hallway, and all the doors open to allow a breeze to sweep through the entire building from one side to the other, the lower floors had aired out some after nightfall. This floor felt warmer and the air was thicker with cigarette smoke. When the people in the hallway saw them, and saw they meant business, they started to clear out, gathering up their children and pouring into their rooms and closing the doors behind them.

They found room 487 and Dan paused, just off to the side of the doorway. Seeing an opportunity to take the lead, Fitz strode past Dan to kick the door in.

"Don't!" Dan yelled, but it was too late. Fitz kicked the door in, and a roar of glowing orange flames and roiling black smoke leaped out at all of them, seeking oxygen. They all managed to get clear, but Clay definitely felt singed. His face felt like it had gotten an instant sun burn.

With the door open, the fire was out of the bottle and burning hot. It had already consumed the interior of the hotel room, and with fresh air coming in it gained new life. The fire spread quickly, and doors to the rooms on either side of the burning hotel room flung open and the hallway flooded with coughing, choking people carrying as many belongings as they could.

A cry of, "Fire!" was taken up, and in this day and age, when fire drills didn't exist and fire codes and departments were virtually non-existent, a fire often meant large-scale death. Most buildings didn't even have working alarms anymore, nevertheless sprinkler systems. The panic that ensued in that small space was the first threat, and their team fled down the hall before it completely filled and became impossible to move to the stairwells at each end of the hall.

"We have to warn the people upstairs!" Charlie insisted when they made it to the stairs. The kid leaned over, putting both hands on his knees and coughing. Gray smoke was already getting thick in the air. Clay felt a dry burn at the back of his own throat. "They might not know anything's wrong!"

"Not our problem," Fitz said, he was already fighting his way down the stairs, elbowing people aside and leaving the three of them behind on the fourth floor landing.

"For once I agree," Dan said. "We need to get out of here."

"You do what you have to. I'm going upstairs," Charlie said, and then he did. No one was coming down from the fifth floor, so his journey up was much easier than the trip down would've been.

Dan looked at Clay, and Clay just shrugged. "I'll go keep an eye on him," Clay offered. After six months, he did have some faith in Charlie's judgment. The kid was cautious above all else. "You want to go ahead, see if you can contact the authorities? See if you can get a hold of Karver?"

"All right," Dan agreed reluctantly, but the set of his mouth conveyed his unhappiness with the situation. "You boys get back safe. Both of you."

"Roger that," Clay said in parting, before charging up the staircase.

Charlie was already busy pounding on doors and shouting at people to evacuate. The kid really took charge. Clay just stood behind Charlie and looked like he'd love to thump anyone unwilling to cooperate. After they finally reached the end of the hallway, they were awash in a sea of people. The line going down the stairs backed up to a standstill and the air continued to thicken with smoke. It got difficult to breathe, especially as people pressed closer and closer together, pressing steadily toward the exit.

"There was a fire escape all the way to the ground on one side of the building," Clay reminded. "On the south side."

Charlie was starting to turn pale, his face awash in sweat. Covering his mouth with the back of one hand, he coughed often and seemed to have a particularly difficult time catching his breath.

Clay placed a steadying hand on the kid's shoulder. "Hey, man. You don't look so good."

Charlie choked, coughing and sputtering until tears ran down his cheeks and he started to gag. Only Clay's grip on his shoulder kept him from swaying on his feet. The kid looked like he might pass out any second.

Pulling Charlie behind him, Clay made a path. It was a tight crowd, but when Clayton Carmine wanted to get somewhere, people scrambled to step aside and make a damn path. The door he wanted would be on the south side of the hallway, and if the occupants had any brains at all, the door would be closed because they would've escaped the building out the window.

Sure enough, there was one door along the hall still shut, and Clay kicked it in, breaking the door off its hinges and splintering the door frame. The window was already open, the room empty of inhabitants. The burning at the back of Clay's throat eased when cool air from the window washed over him. It was pure relief compared to the furnace of the burning hotel. Pushing Charlie ahead of him, Clay climbed out onto the fire escape after the kid. Even after they made it into fresh air, Charlie still fought with a wheezing cough. The fit refused to release him, finally bringing Charlie to his knees after descending only one flight of metal stairs.

This side of the building was pressed close to another building in an alley, and most of the light from the street was blocked out. They were four flights up and far from help when Charlie slumped into a pathetic pile, leaning against the iron lattice with one hand still clutching the rail.

Moving around the younger man, Clay tried to lift him, but Charlie batted his hands away, coughing until it began to choke him, and hardly able to manage even shallow breaths in between.

"We need to keep moving," Clay reminded, although when he looked around he couldn't see any immediate danger, but they were alone four stories up, and Clay liked having his boots on solid ground. He wanted to make sure Dan got out. He wanted to find the man they'd come here to hunt, if he hadn't burned in that hotel room.

Charlie leaned forward like he might throw up, gagging while he shrugged out of his jacket and then clawed at his shirt, finally managing to rip it over his head and exposing his back side; an expanse of pale skin interrupted by tan strips of cloth. All of a sudden it became very clear why Charlie couldn't breathe. His chest was bound tight with long, thick bandages. The binding restricted his ability to catch his breath, and when Charlie began to pull at the bandages, Clay bent down to help him find the edge and start to unravel them.

It had already been a night full of surprises, and by the time Charlie managed to remove the bandages enough to finally catch his wind, Clay got one more surprise.

"You're a girl," he said, perhaps a little dumbfounded, but not displeased by the view, or the revelation.

On his knees—on _her _knees—Charlie wheezed in response, still occasionally coughing, but slowly evening out. Her eyes were red and watering from the coughing fit, one small hand braced against her sternum as if she could hold each breath steady. She didn't even have the wherewithal to cover herself, and when Clay heard voices below in the alley, he moved quickly to grab Charlie's jacket and wrap it around her shoulders, setting himself in front of her so no one else would be able to see from any angle.

Kneeling next to each other, it became blatantly apparent that Charlie was ridiculously small compared to Clay's massive bulk. It just hadn't ever occurred to Clay to notice before, but suddenly he found the fact hilarious. It probably should've occurred to him long before this that Charlie wasn't a guy. After a moment, Clay started to feel the tug of a shit-eating grin at the corners of his mouth. He thought back over the past several months, and all the locker-room talk Charlie had silently witnessed. At the time, Clay thought he'd been talking to a group of guys, so Charlie knew things about him. Things most girls he met didn't. Charlie probably knew more about all of them than they'd really want a woman to know.

"Shit, you really fooled us," Clay said, shaking his head and grinning, absurdly amused by the deception. "I don't even know how many times I've stripped down in front of you. _Dan_ has stripped down in front of you. Hell, we thought you were modest because of whatever STD you've got."

"Made it up," she breathed, and then coughed some more. She looked like hell warmed over, but definitely female when he really paid attention. She had a solid frame for a girl, and that had helped, but the line of the hip and leg should've given her away, even in baggy cargos. Women were slightly knock-kneed. Charlie was still thin, although no longer starved thin, so it was harder to identify the feminine shape. She didn't have much chest left to bind.

Tina never would've gotten away with such a deception, top or bottom.

"You made a lot up," Clay agreed. "You got a name? Besides 'Charlie'?"

Charlie shook her head. "Easier for you to remember, so you won't give me away."

Clay cocked his head a little to one side, still amused as hell. "What makes you think I'm going to keep it a secret?"

Fear and doubt crept into Charlie's face. Her dark blue eyes searched his dark brown ones for a long moment before Clay finally cracked a wide smile. He'd just been yanking her chain. She'd have to get used to that, because he planned to do it often.

"You won't tell?" she asked, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

Clay scooped up her discarded shirt and crammed it over her head, feeling a pang of regret at losing the view. "It'll be a lot more fun watching the rest of those dumbasses go on thinking you're a dude," he decided.

"Thanks," Charlie said, tentatively. She didn't seem to know quite what to make of his playful teasing.

Clay smiled big while helping Charlie up onto her feet and helping her get her jacket arranged. He helped her roll up the discarded bandages so they'd fit discretely into one of her pockets. Maybe he was sick, but he'd already come up with at least five ways he planned on making Charlie squirm on a daily basis. Nothing too serious. Just little things, 'tugging pigtails on the playground' sorts of things.

If he was really lucky, someday she'd let him make her squirm in a mutually pleasurablesort of way.

"Are you gay?" Clay asked while they carefully picked their way down the side of the building. The north side, facing the street, would be the side burning so there was no rush.

"No. Why?" Her voice came out thread thin.

"Don't get me wrong; it's fine if you are gay. But if you aren't, I'm having a hard time believing you haven't thought about jumping my bones. I mean, come on. You've _seen _me naked. You know I'm proportional. What are you waiting for?" Clay was flirting with her, because that's what he did with girls, but in a way that would make it very difficult for her to know for sure he was teasing her.

Charlie just looked at him, completely abashed. It was the same expression Clay would expect to find on a young man's face if he'd heard those same words come out of Clay's mouth. Stunned stupid.

"Mmm, I get it," Clay concluded. "You've been playing the part too long. You don't even know when to stop pretending anymore."

"Are you really not going to tell?" she finally asked when they were nearly back down to the street. With her breathing clearing up, Clay noticed her voice sounded different. Charlie-the-boy had a flat, quiet voice. His tone rarely changed. Charlie-the-girl had a slightly higher pitched voice with more inflection, more depth.

"I'm really not going to tell," Clay promised, jumping down to the ground first, a drop of approximately ten feet, and then motioning her to jump after him. He caught her effortlessly, her firm waist fitting nicely into his large hands. For a moment he held her off the ground and over him, bringing her down so they were nose-to-nose, her hands coming to rest on his biceps for balance. "But I can't promise I won't try to have sex with you."

Her eyes narrowed. There was definitely something fiery there, something used to clawing tooth and nail for survival. Clay liked that. He loved a challenge, especially when the challenge was a woman.

"If you think..." she started to threaten. For a moment, she reminded him of a kitten with all its fur sticking up and its small back arched, tiny claws extended while it hissed at a lion.

Clay smirked, one of his eyebrows rising. This was going to be even more fun than he'd thought. "Don't worry. If you're not begging me for it, I'm not interested. Deal?"

Charlie let out a tired sigh and her entire body went lax. From her boots to her shoulders, she almost seemed to droop. Clay could feel the change in muscle tension under his hands. "Okay," she agreed, like a sleepy but resigned child finally agreeing to go to bed.

After he gently lowered her to the ground, the two of them walked side-by-side out of the alley. They found Dan out in front of the building, but they didn't find Fitz. After all three of them voted to not wait around to see if Fitz might grace them with his presence, they walked back to the motel to get a few hours of sleep before dawn.

Whenever their team stayed in a motel, Karver and his daughter typically got their own room with two beds. Clay and Dan usually got their own room, also with two beds, and Fitz got a room by himself, because no one liked him. Charlie usually slept in the bunk set up in the back of the truck out in the parking lot. In retrospect, that small amount of privacy had probably allowed Charlie to keep them in the dark this long.

Charlie showered in their bathroom, and then left to get some sleep in the truck, ruck slung over her shoulder.

Dan had already gone to bed, but Clay stayed up, sitting up shirtless in bed and reading the next day's paper. He'd pulled up the sheets until they barely covered his lap, coming up just far enough to leave doubt about whether he had anything on at all, but low enough to show off the sharply cut vee accenting his hips and all eight pecs in their finely distinguishable glory.

When Charlie walked by he casually set the paper aside, and casually laced his fingers together at the back of his head so she'd get the full effect of the view.

"Night, Chuck," Clay called, right before she walked out the motel door. His tone was casual, but his brown eyes danced with mischief. Even if all this came to nothing, he'd still enjoy himself.

She paused for a second, as if jarred, and then continued on, trying very hard not to look over at him. The door clicked when it latched behind her.

* * *

_AN: So, what do you think? I actually think I'm more excited about this story so far than I was about the original. I think I like the story better, but you be the judge. Let me know what you think ;D_


	34. Part 2: Chapter 3

_AN: Thanks as always for the awesome support. Thanks to my beta, writtenrhythm for the excellent questions and suggestions on this chapter :D_ _Definitely go read her Gears story, 'A Father's Love' and review it. I'm going to send her three more chapters for this story to beta at her convenience, so she's definitely overworked and underpaid for this gig! If you're a fan of this story, it might help grease the wheels if you hop over and show her story some love. Just sayin;)_

* * *

Vernon Richtner was a weasel. A low-down, dirty weasel. Anya knew for sure when the piggish little man gave her a room on the third floor to work out of. It wasn't much more than a janitor's closet, tucked away in the far south corner of the third floor, about as far from the staircase as one could get and still be inside the building. There was a card table set up in the middle of the room with several boxes stacked on top, and it left barely enough space to maneuver around the room, should she ever wish to do so.

The walls were grey in color and slightly damp. There were no windows, and only one bare hanging bulb to provide light. The first time Anya stepped into the room that would become her workspace, the musty smell of mildew nearly overpowered her firm control, and she almost wrinkled her nose in distaste. But she caught the reaction in time and kept her features carefully neutral. Richtner had been standing next to her, watching her face for just such a response, but she didn't give him the satisfaction.

"I had my secretary run up this first batch of records, but if you need any more you'll have to go down to the basement and get them yourself. She'll show you where to go. I can't run a business and have my employees hijacked all the time," he explained, as if that were perfectly reasonable.

To be honest, it would've been perfectly reasonable, _if _the small card table currently set up in a musty janitor's closet on the third floor had instead been set up in the basement, next to the dozens of boxes of records Anya needed to comb through.

Anya told him so, but Richtner insisted the basement was inhospitable, as it was currently undergoing renovation. She'd be much happier on the third floor, he was sure. The first floor was much too busy during the day with the machine shops, loading dock, dispatch office, employee lounge and locker rooms. The second floor was filled with offices—all of which were occupied. So no, he didn't have any space for her to set up her card table on a lower floor.

If he was hoping to scare her off, it wouldn't work. Oh sure, she wanted to quit. She wanted to chew him out, tell him he was a small-minded bastard and she wouldn't take any disrespect off the likes of him, but she didn't have grounds for that yet. On the surface, he was being quite cooperative. How could she bitch about having a quiet place to work in this day and age? Most people didn't have a home to live in. But there was no doubt in her mind this arrangement had been set up on purpose. This was Richtner's way of making her as miserable as possible. He had succeeded at making her absolutely miserable, but if she had her way he'd never know it.

"Well, I guess I'll be getting plenty of exercise," she told him, like it didn't bother her a bit. Like she didn't feel an inkling of dread crawling up the back of her throat when she thought of the agony she would endure every step of the way up and down those stairs. And up, and back down, and so on and so forth.

The doctor had told her to get lots of low-impact exercise to prevent her muscles from becoming rigid while she healed. This would definitely force her to get lots and lots of exercise. She'd only be able to carry one box at a time and it would be very difficult, whether she went on the downhill trip or the uphill trip. It would also make her job take far longer than it otherwise would have, and in the meantime she planned to make Vernon Richtner and Bender Fields very uncomfortable.

After all, comfort and courtesy were luxuries they couldn't afford to extend to a COG representative auditing their company.

"Excellent. I'll leave you to it, then," he said, flashing her a wide smile in parting.

What an egotistical, narcissistic faker. If she were a betting woman, she'd bet her entire week's paycheck that Marcus would sooner throttle this man than look at him. In fact, she wouldn't mind applying a bit of pressure on Richtner's windpipe herself, but Marcus's powerful hands would do a better job. The major difference her and Marcus was Marcus's absolute lack of tact in social situations. If he didn't like someone, they sure as hell knew it. He was honest to fault, even when it might damage his career—or his relationships.

Anya smiled at Richtner in return, and only someone who knew her very well would've noticed the difference between the smile she gave him and the warm, genuine smile she'd give to someone she actually liked.

Long before Anya went to boot camp, she went to a different sort of boot camp. Soldiers were drilled on marksmanship, leadership and tactics. From the time she was a small girl, Anya was drilled in walking like she had a book balanced on her head and putting on just the right smile for the occasion. She'd perfected a wide range, from small and chill to wide and congratulatory. If the social situation existed, Anya had just the right facial expression for it. She'd had to practice in front of a mirror until she got each down pat.

During her teenage years, Anya remembered all the times she'd complained about the Girl's Academy in the letters she wrote to her mother in prose class. She must've said those exact words a hundred times, and it never made any difference. Anya always felt she should be learning useful things, not acting. Strange how in the long run, the acting had carried her the farthest. Especially as a communications officer.

Anya spent that first day going through the boxes of records already stacked in the small room, eating the lunch she'd packed while she worked. Bender's records were so random and convoluted it took hours and hours to sort through them, but she slowly pieced together a vague time-line. At night, Anya had nightmares about dredging through box after box of paperwork.

At first, her teetering trips up and down the staircase were terrifying, and excruciating. She had to balance a box under her left arm while holding her cane in her left hand, and navigate one slow step at a time with her right hand firmly gripping the stair rail. The first few days left her entire body sore and her right leg and hip throbbing. Muscles she hadn't used regularly for months screamed for a break after two days, but she pushed through, and once the soreness finally faded, she found it much easier.

Anya wasn't finding much out of place in the hardcopy records. They were sorely lacking, but so were printing supplies. Many companies had the same problem, and the meat of her job would come in observing workers in the field and inspecting job sites.

A full week passed before she ran into Marcus. She'd been standing at the bottom of the stairwell with a box under her arm, taking a moment to steel herself for the ascent. He'd happened to be walking by, his cargos and work boots spattered with mud after a long day of tromping around work sites. He'd probably been on his way to clock out for the evening.

"Need a hand?" he asked, his ice blue eyes following the stairs upward.

Anya gave him a strained smile. "I think I can manage," she said, even though she was tired, and the staircase looked even taller and more daunting than usual.

Instead of getting put off by her words, he took a step closer. "I'm sure you can," he said, and held out a large hand, palm up.

After a moment of hesitation, Anya surrendered the box, letting it slide out from under her arm. He took it, hefting it under his own arm and walked beside her. He didn't offer her an arm to lean on and she appreciated it. In a stiff sort of way, Marcus was trying to be awfully considerate for someone disgusted by decisions she'd made in wartime.

"How have you been?" she asked after the first flight passed in silence. She tried to act casual, both in her movements and in conversation. It was much easier to make her way without the offsetting weight of a heavy box. With her hand free, she could've used her cane, but she didn't. Even though the doctors didn't hold out much hope for a full recovery, she had gotten stronger over the past week. Maybe someday she'd be able to walk long distances unassisted.

Marcus shrugged. "Can't complain," he said. He didn't say anything more.

In moments like this, Anya wondered if he struggled to find something more to say in the way of polite small talk, or if he preferred the silence. When they were younger, they'd had such vibrant conversations. Anya could remember the last social event the two of them had attended together as adolescents. It was an officer's ball, hosted at the Fenix mansion. Marcus had been seventeen and about to finish school. She'd been fifteen, and about to enter the officer's academy.

Back then he'd looked older than his years, even when freshly shaven, and none of the caterers asked any questions when he ordered two glasses of champagne from the open bar. He'd led her upstairs, away from the party, and out onto a balcony at the back of the house, overlooking the gardens.

Spending time with Marcus had made her feel like a lady instead of a silly little rich girl attending a glorified finishing school, albeit a finishing school with an extremely strong background in mathematics and science. Many of Jacinto Academy's young ladies went on to be doctors, lawyers and officers. Just as the men's prep school had Junior Cadet drills, so did the Jacinto Academy for Young Ladies. In fact, the drill field Anya had marched on every morning since she was twelve was named after her grandfather, Colonel Stroud.

It'd been a beautiful night in East Barricade, with a clear, starry sky. The two of them had been so young and optimistic then. They'd sat in the moonlight, forgoing artificial light to keep early summer bugs away. They'd sipped champagne and, being the upper-crust military brats they were, discussed everything from politics to war tactics just like the grown-ups downstairs. She'd felt so alive that evening, so pretty in her party dress, and delighted to spend time with her favorite non-relation. When the night turned cold, Marcus had lent her his blazer jacket. They'd felt very comfortable around each other then, and the age difference didn't matter a bit.

It was the last time Anya saw him before he enlisted, and when it came time for her to leave in the small hours of the morning, he'd kissed her in parting, first on the forehead, and then chastely on the lips.

Part of what she'd loved about him, what she'd _always _loved about him was the way he carried himself like an adult at all times, no matter what happened.

It'd been their first kiss. Anya could still remember the faint, mellow scent of the cologne he'd worn that night, and the way he'd held her close, his large hands nearly encircling her waist. She'd always wondered if Carlos had pressed his friend to take that step, to kiss her farewell. It didn't seem like the sort of thing Marcus would've pursued on his own, but then again it had been a wonderful evening, and they'd each had more than one drink. Maybe back then, in his youth, Marcus did occasionally get carried away by a romantic moment.

"I heard they're giving Dom a squad," she said, pausing for a moment on the second floor landing to rest. "A seek and capture demo team. He seems pretty excited to get out of the office," she said. And then, she added in explanation, "I saw him and Mataki in the mess for dinner the other night. Dom deserves some happiness. I'm really glad you found his son."

Anya meant that from the bottom of her heart. She'd assisted Dom in his search for Maria for years, spending many of her off-shift hours poring over leads. It had kept her and Dom connected and distracted, and perhaps kept them both sane during the years Marcus was in prison.

Marcus grunted, as if a bit disbelieving, but he didn't offer to share his thoughts on the subject. Anya had heard that Dom's long lost son, Carlo, could be a handful. Maybe Marcus's displeasure stemmed from that fact?

Anya worked her hip a little, finding it sore from getting overworked. She had a list of stretches to do every night before bed and she'd be doing all of them tonight, and the next morning. "Dom asked me to go visit a woman at the VA with him this weekend. He said her daughter was your roommate for a while."

Marcus nodded, heaving a tired sigh. He started forward, trudging up the stairs. Anya reluctantly followed after him.

Just when she thought he'd remain silent on this subject as well, he said, "Dom thought he could help her." Marcus paused, his jaw muscle working as if he were literally chewing over a thought. "Did Dom tell you I got a conception order from PCD last year?"

Anya hadn't felt such a varied flare of emotion in years. Jealousy, curiosity, disbelief. Did Marcus have children? How had PCD gotten their hooks into him in the first place? "No, he didn't mention it. Did you have to go through with it?" In spite of her misgivings, she delivered the question casually. The same way she'd ask what kind of beer he liked.

"No," he said. "The order came after our roommate disappeared."

More than anything, Anya wanted to ask '_What if she hadn't disappeared?' _But she remained silent. After all, what would it help? She knew Marcus pretty well. Many times, he took things at face value. If he didn't have certain supplies out in the field, he didn't sit around wondering _what if? _Since the conception order came after the young woman in question had disappeared, he may not have expended much brain power on alternate scenarios.

To be perfectly honest, it would take quite a bit of wind out of her sails if she'd shown up here and found Marcus entangled with another woman. It would make her feel woefully inadequate. After all, didn't he keep her at a distance for so many years because he couldn't handle the idea of having a relationship?

"I'm sorry about what happened to her," Anya said, unable to get a reading on whether or not Marcus gave a damn about the girl. "It sounds like Dom took her disappearance pretty hard."

"Not as hard as he could've," Marcus pointed out, and Anya thought she detected a bit of emotion in there. It was a deeply seated and bitter, perhaps a bit of self-loathing, and some frustration with the girl for becoming yet another loss his friend had to endure.

"Dom mentioned he's in session regularly. And starting on low-dose medication. He thinks it's helping."

"Don't let that get around," Marcus said, cutting her off harshly and keeping his voice low, as if someone might hear them talking. "No one wants to serve under a sergeant who's medicated and seeing a shrink."

"Marcus," Anya said, using her most neutral 'calm down' tone of voice. "I know all about military stigmas. Believe me, I have no intention of doing anything that might jeopardize Dom's career."

After a pause, he nodded, like he found her words acceptable.

Briefly, in a moment of concentrated frustration, Anya wondered if he'd also find it acceptable if she lodged her ladies-size-ten boot in his ass. Just how stupid did he think she was, anyway?

"Richtner's got you all the way back here," Marcus noted when they arrived at her tiny office.

"Out of sight, out of mind," Anya agreed, leaning on her cane with both hands. She was tired. She could feel the tension of the day gathering just behind her eyes, building up to a full-blown headache.

Marcus set the box down on her small table and then shoved both hands into his cargo pockets. "You planning to eat tonight?" he asked. "It's getting late. Mess'll close soon."

Sure enough, a glance at her watch proved him right. "I guess I'll have to eat in town," she concluded. "I can hire a cab."

"I'll give you a ride. I have a truck," he said, answering the questioning glance she gave him. Not many people these days had their own vehicle for personal use. Marcus was decently mechanical, but he didn't know cars that well. Not like Dom, or Baird. "It's Baird's pick-up. I'm keeping it for him while he consults for the COG."

Oh really? When had the two of them gotten so buddy-buddy? Just about to open her mouth to ask after Baird's whereabouts, Anya's stomach let out an unmistakable growl and she stowed all questions away for later, except one.

"All right. What's good to eat around here?"

* * *

He was gone before she woke the next morning, and she woke up pretty damn early. Her right side was extra stiff, and Anya groaned at throwing back the covers and reaching over to check her watch on the nightstand. It'd been a long time since she'd slept in a real bed. Something other than a cot or a hospital bed—which was pretty much the same thing most of the time.

Instead of dwelling on Marcus's absence, Anya busied herself getting ready for work. First with her stretching routine and then with a shower, enjoying the warmth of the water running over sore body. The shower felt so good, and helped loosen the tightness in her hip and lower back just as much as stretching had.

A wave of loneliness found her in the shower. With her palms pressed against the tile, supporting some of her weight, her eyes began to burn and her throat constricted. It was the first time she'd been completely alone in a long time, so she let all the pent up emotion of the past several months pour through her. Loss, of her physical strength and her command. She felt so alone, and at the moment a little bit used. She had no remaining female officer companions, Marcus would always be just beyond her reach, and sometimes she just lost hope. With her body broken and spirit damaged, what good was she?

Anya gave herself a few minutes to stew before turning off the water and soldiering on with the life she had been granted to live out.

After getting dressed, Anya limped out to the kitchen, finding the note he'd left for her on the kitchen table. There was a piece of paper with 'Anya' written on it in blocky handwriting, and there was money next to the note. A little more than she'd need for cab fare and breakfast.

With a long, weary sigh, Anya lowered herself down into a chair and started the slow task of sliding her boots on one at a working the laces with her fingers, Anya couldn't help but think about something one of her men had once said to his buddy sitting next to him, both of them unaware their commanding officer was listening in. "Hey, man. You know you don't pay a 'ho for sex, right? You payin' the bitch to leave after."

Weirdly enough, she couldn't even find it in her heart to get pissed off at Marcus. In her youth she would've been furious, but things had stood as such between them for a long time. They were adults, and they both knew the score. In his own awkward way, he did care for her, it just wasn't a relationship-sustaining sort of caring. It was what it was, and in a moment of weakness they'd added another entry into their long and varied history together. This time was different only because there was no war, no prison sentence, no imminent demise of human kind hanging over them. Before, they had no choice about the briefness of their encounters.

Perhaps those things had caused the dysfunction in their relationship in the first place, but now there were no more excuses to hide behind. Marcus had a day job, Anya had light duty assignments. If she wanted out of the COG, all she had to do was ask. A path that might lead to real commitment had opened up, entirely clear of obstacles. It just made the disconnect she and Marcus had between physical attraction and emotional attachment stand out all the more clearly.

At least in the past, moments like these had been bastions of comfort for both of them, a much-needed celebration of life in the midst of so much death and despair. This time, her injuries had made things difficult. That, and he really hadn't forgiven her. Anya knew he'd tried to push aside their last encounter on Vectes, forget what she'd done. She wasn't even quite sure how she knew he couldn't. Maybe it was something different in the way he looked at her, or touched her. Some deep sense she didn't have full awareness of knew Marcus very well, and she knew he was lonely living in this apartment by himself, and perhaps that led him to push aside his disgust and disappointment for a little while.

He'd said it used to be Baird's place, and the evidence if that presented itself in the living area. Looking around, Anya saw workbenches, half-finished projects and tools hung up neatly on all four walls. A fine layer of dust told her none of these things had been touched in months.

What did Marcus do here every night? Work? Surrounded by evidence of Damon Baird's hobbies, she couldn't help but wonder if Marcus had any. In his youth he'd enjoyed reading, and she had noticed a few books lying around. All non-fiction, and some of them text books.

With her boots tied on tight, Anya let her hands come to rest in her lap, just sitting quietly for a while. During her time in the hospital, she'd spent a lot of time quietly recovering, all the while wishing she could get up and move and get something accomplished. Ever since she'd gotten cleared to come off bed rest, she'd tried to stay moving and occupied. Peace and quiet reminded her too much of lying in a steaming-hot hospital room, sweating through the thin hospital gown and feeling every excruciating moment of her body trying to knit itself back together.

She'd spent a lot of time lying in that bed thinking back on all her regrets. After her men were redeployed under a new CO, no one came to visit her except Hoffman, and even those visits had been few and far between. He had a world to rebuild, and she could hardly blame him for not having time to keep her company.

After collecting her thoughts for a few more moments, and then collecting her cane from where it leaned next to the front door, Anya slowly made her way out of the apartment and headed downstairs to catch a cab to work.

She left Marcus's money behind on the kitchen table. She didn't see him again, professionally or privately, for nearly three weeks.

* * *

_AN: Any theories on where this might all be heading? If you've got an idea, nitpick, praise, whatever, I'd love to hear it:D _


	35. Part 2: Chapter 4

_AN: We've almost got the gang back together in this chapter. I know some of you were waiting for it :D Don't worry, the rest will be along soon enough._

* * *

"How'd you Gears get so big eating this shit?" Carlo asked, allowing a spoonful of ration oatmeal slide off his spoon and drip onto his plate. He pushed the entire tray away with one fingertip, clearly done with his breakfast. He'd eaten maybe a third of it, but that wasn't unusual. Once the novelty of always having food available to him wore off, Carlo began to graze, rarely stuffing himself. He said over-indulging made him feel sick. "Nai Nai used to sell roasted rats that tasted way better than this."

"It's not so bad," Dom replied absently, flipping through the newspaper lying next to him on the cafeteria table. It was over a week old, but these days, that counted as recent. Spooning up some of the gruel, he took a bite and then swallowed, actually paying attention to the taste for once.

He looked up to find Carlo eyeing him expectantly.

"All right," Dom admitted. "It's not so bad once your taste buds die off."

Carlo grinned impishly. He'd seemed happier lately, ever since he'd started hanging out with Jovon Smith, another boy from school. Jovon had an extensive comic collection, and he'd used that collection to teach Carlo how to read. Over the past several months it had become a rare event for Dom to see his son without a colorful, plastic-wrapped comic in front of him, his eyes hungrily absorbing the story within. Even at breakfast, he had an issue spread out in front of him.

Carlo wasn't a fast reader, and he still struggled with homework and discipline, but he'd come leaps and bounds from the education level he'd started out at when Marcus found him on the street over a year ago.

"Eh, I dare you to mix that all together and eat it." Carlo indicated the oatmeal, watery eggs, pico-protein and ketchup-covered hash browns included on Dom's plate.

On the weekends, the two of them cooked breakfast in their quarters, but during the week it saved time to eat in the mess. In spite of Carlo's complaints about the cuisine, the kid had grown quite a bit since his nutrition level had evened out. Usually people mistook him for an eleven or twelve-year-old these days instead of nine or ten like they used to.

"Uh, yeah. That's not gonna happen," Dom said, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee.

Carlo shrugged nonchalantly, like it didn't matter to him in the least. "Fine," he said with a sigh. "Be a coward."

"You won't even eat your breakfast as it is, and you're calling me a coward?"

Carlo shrugged, apparently beaten for the moment, but Dom knew the kid rarely gave up so easily. "So, they gonna let you actually be in charge of people today?"

"Looks like it," Dom responded, noncommittal. After spending months behind a desk shuffling paperwork, orders had unexpectedly come down for him to report for field duty. He was being given his own squad to train. Why or how that had happened, Dom didn't know.

Carlo gave him a haughty look. "Don't fuck up," he advised sagely. "I mean it. I gotta share a name with you, man. I'm just starting to earn some cred around here."

"Some 'cred'?" Dom asked, making a noise halfway between a skeptical laugh and a snort. "Doing what? Hustling?"

"No," Carlo insisted, indignant. "Just bein' me. COG girls love me, brah."

Dom perked up a little at that. "Is it too much for me to hope when you say 'love', you're referring to something age appropriate?"

His son glowered back at him. "Yeah, yeah. COG girls love me, but they prudes. Can't hardly get a cheap feel around here."

"Oh, the humanity," Dom said dryly, not quite keeping the mocking tone from his voice. He folded up the newspaper and set it aside, leaving it for the next person who sat at the table to read. "I know. I'm a hypocrite," he said, just as Carlo opened his mouth to say it. "And I want you to think really hard about that. Twenty years after the fact I'm still taking shit for something I did at sixteen. I'm taking it from you, and from certain smartass engineers who will remain nameless, even though the girl I knocked up and the baby we had together are both gone. It doesn't matter what you do after the fact, that's the sort of thing you just never live down."

It was a tribute to the intensive therapy he'd undergone and the medications he was currently taking that he could bring up this subject without getting emotional. What had once felt like an insurmountable wound seemed a little more distant, not so raw and fresh. With distance, Dom felt more in control. He could talk about some of those memories without getting choked up. On a good day, he could even use them as practical life lessons for his son.

Carlo rolled his eyes, reverently closing his comic and placing it in his backpack between two heavy books so the pages wouldn't get bent. "I would've wrapped it," he said, ever the cynical Monday Morning Quarterback.

Dom nodded, musing over that, the small smile on his face turning wicked. "It's not so easy to think straight when you've got a girl like Maria on your lap...with both her hands shoved down the front of your pants..."

The death glare he caught from his son made him trail off, but his smile remained. As much as Carlo liked to pretend he didn't have any tender sensibilities, he did have a few soft spots. He liked to rib Dom about his sex life, past and present, and the best way to fight back was usually to take the joke farther than Carlo intended it to go.

"There's somethin' wrong with you, you know that?" Carlo asked while sliding off the bench on his side of the table.

Finishing his coffee, and leaving the paper behind for the next comer to read, Dom also rose. This was where he usually parted ways with his son. Carlo's classroom was down the hall from the mess in the west wing of the building, and today Dom would be heading outside to meet his new squad.

"I may get in late tonight. You want to go over to Jovon's for a while after school?" Dom asked as they headed out of the cafeteria.

Carlo scoffed in parting. "Don't really need your permission, brah."

"Sure you do. I'm not too old to kick your ass. Remember that."

"You'd have to catch me first," Carlo taunted, heading off down the hall without looking back, his backpack hanging from one thin shoulder. His threat was hardly an idle one. Dom had never seen anyone who could disappear like his son.

Once upon a time, Dom had been a Commando. He'd been trained to track men down and kill them. He couldn't keep up with Carlo. The boy was fast, and cunning. He could climb a wall with the barest of footholds, and heights didn't bother him a bit. Neither did deep, dark corners. Bernie and Cole working together had failed to track the kid down when he disappeared after Dom got stabbed.

That skill had probably kept the kid alive on the street, but it didn't translate well to his new life. MPs didn't particularly enjoy being evaded by a fourteen year old child.

And neither did Dom, when it came down to it.

* * *

"You son of a bitch!"

Dom paused in delivering an OP order to the three men standing before him in the parking lot of the motor pool. Turning around, he wasn't entirely surprised to see Baird striding toward him across the hot, black asphalt of the motor pool lot. After all, he'd been ordered to meet his new squad at the motor pool this morning, bring them up to speed, and then travel with them and a civilian consultant to an old abandoned air field two hundred klicks east, out by the coast in the bad lands.

Their mission was to perform a structural soundness analysis on every standing structure on the airfield and assist the consultant with any extracurricular assessments. It was similar in nature to the work Dom performed at Bender Fields, which was exactly why he'd been chosen to lead this squad.

So, obviously Baird was the civilian consultant. Most civilians didn't wear plate armor and carry Lancers on their backs. Most civilians didn't call COG sergeants sons-of-bitches to their faces, either.

"You stole him from me. You son of a bitch." Whatever his issue was, Baird seemed adamant about it. Sometimes it was hard to tell. The guy did have a tendency to gripe because he could.

Dom glanced over at Cole. "Is he talking about you?" he asked.

Cole had been gone for spring thrashball training camp, and now he was off for a few months during the summer. He'd report back to camp at the end of the summer for the beginning of the season. Because Cole technically belonged to the COG while he played for their team, they could put him on active duty when he wasn't busy being a sports star. He'd been put on this squad for the same reason Dom had been put at its head; he had both demolition and combat experience, and lots of it.

It had been a pleasant surprise to find Cole assigned to Dom's first squad. Having Cole at his back would make it a hell of a lot easier to fake it until he made it. Dom had two other privates assigned to his squad besides Cole, and although they were young men, only nineteen or twenty, neither was green. One had served as an MP for years and the other was high speed infantry.

Cole managed to look a bit sheepish and shrugged. "Could be. Haven't had a chance to see him since I got in last night."

"I specifically requested Cole be put on my service, and what did the COG do, in all their infinite wisdom? They gave him to _you._" Baird hadn't shaved in several days, which meant he probably hadn't slept much. It was already eighty five degrees out and they were all starting to glisten a little under the hot sun. They'd soon be cooped up together in a vehicle for six to eight hours, depending on road conditions. All the makings of a wonderful day. "So, what gives, Cole? You don't like me anymore?" Baird's eyes narrowed, and it was almost comedic.

Cole didn't even try to argue. He knew how to handle Baird—how to throw him off the scent, anyway. Cole stepped forward and spread his arms wide. "Sounds like someone needs a hug," he said brightly.

"Oh,_ hell no_."

A second later, Baird got gathered up into a bear hug of epic proportions, and he got slapped hard enough on the back to leave Cole-sized hand prints in his plate armor.

"The Cole Train missed ya, baby," Cole said, laying some platonic love on the cranky engineer. He released Baird, and the younger man took a second to collect himself the same way a ruffled and indignant tom cat might take a moment to set itself to rights after being subjected to an unwanted cuddle.

"Yeah, yeah," Baird pushed back his thick and unruly blond hair. He was well past due for a trim. "So how'd you get stuck with this clown?" Baird asked, jerking a thumb in Dom's direction.

"That's 'sergeant' to you, Baird," Dom reminded. "If you re-upped, I'd drop you for a hundred up-downs every time I saw you just on principle."

"Good luck with that, because I'm never re-upping. It just doesn't pay. Since I'm an independent contractor, the COG has to put me on retainer. I can tell them to kiss my ass any time I want. And I'm waiting on an answer, Gus."

Cole shrugged. "They never said who wanted me. They just said it was some asshole in avionics, and you know I hate flying." Cole chuckled briefly, shaking his head. "Since they callin' you the asshole in avionics, I guess that pretty little brunette of yours isn't working hard enough at sweetening you up, huh, Damon?"

Baird barely suppressed a full-bodied shiver and grumbled a few choice words in regard to that subject. That perked Dom's curiosity right up. Was there a new woman in Baird's life? Did Baird even have a life? Dom had lived on base for over six months and he rarely caught glimpses of the engineer. He'd assumed work accounted for it, but perhaps not all of it? Whatever had or was happening Baird didn't seem too thrilled about it now.

Dom decided he'd have to investigate into Baird's disasters in dating later. If they waited too much longer they'd be late hitting the road.

"Can we get moving, please?" Baird asked, echoing Dom's thoughts. "I'm not getting any younger over here and if Fenix actually beats us out there, I may have to kill somebody."

"Marcus is coming?" Dom asked. He was starting to feel like the briefing he'd received on this mission had been missing some key pieces of information. Dom didn't like that much. He wouldn't have liked it much as a private, and he hated it as a sergeant. These men were putting their lives in his hands, trusting his judgment. What good did his judgment do anyone if he didn't have all the information he needed?

At that moment, Dom would've given anything to turn the reins over to Marcus and go back to being a private. Or hell, even Anya. She'd been in town for several weeks auditing Bender. When he'd last seen his friend, Dom had asked Marcus how it was going, seeing Anya again.

As usual, Marcus didn't kiss and tell—assuming there'd been any kissing to tell about. He'd grumbled a non-committal, 'Fine' and shrugged.

"Bender Fields claimed the rights to the air field years ago. They're sending Fenix to rep their interest while we do the survey for the COG. Didn't you know that?" Baird asked, like he thought Dom must be crazy to not know.

"It wasn't covered in the briefing," Dom admitted. He'd been told to take the COG's civilian consultant to an airfield and do a structural soundness survey. The COG was interested in using the airfield, and when Dom asked for what purpose, he was told the answer was above his pay grade. Dom certainly wasn't used to the COG bothering with land rights disputes when acquiring a tactical asset.

During the war, the COG took what they needed and ignored anyone who complained.

Baird rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously those stripes on your chest are really getting you places. I guess they figured _you _didn't need to know. Which means you need to find these things out on your own. Do you really think Fenix just waited around for people to tell him things? The guy had his ear to the ground all the time. Why do you think he always wore his comm. ear piece?"

Dom got right up in Baird's grill, grabbing the collar of his plate armor and hauling him down an inch to eye level. "What do you think Marcus did to civilians who tried to take him down a peg in front of his squad?" he snarled, his dark eyes alight with rage.

"He didn't make things worse by losing it in front of them, for one thing. Come on, man. Get off me."

Dom let him go, giving Baird a little shove for good measure. Here they were, acting like two kids out on their own for the first time without Marcus's tempering presence, or the long shadow he'd always cast over them.

"But seriously, the sooner we get going the sooner I get to see my...truck..." Baird trailed off, his attention attracted by something over by Dom's two new squad members.

His jaw clenched, and every muscle in Baird's body went rigid.

Dom turned to Cole to ask if he wanted to take the first shift driving the Humvee they'd be checking out from the motor pool for the day, and next thing he knew he heard a clang of metal on metal and a heavy thump. When he whipped around, he saw Baird pin Private Solice against one of the motor pool's ten ton trucks.

"You were there that night!" Baird accused. "You pulled her out of the truck. She died because of you assholes!"

Dom had just met Private Maleko Solice early that morning. He knew the young man had just transferred to a more specialized infantry MOS from MP, but it hadn't occurred to him to ask if Solice had been one of the MPs manning the checkpoint the night Baird and Chelsea had gotten stopped.

According to Baird, both he and Chelsea got pulled from his truck late at night at a checkpoint because Wes Kendall, Chelsea's ex-boyfriend, had decided to press assault charges against her. She probably would've beaten the rap on a plea of self-defense, but odds were better than good she would've been sent to a breeding farm regardless of her innocence. At the time, she'd already been in hot water with the Population Control Division for living with three male roommates, none of which were blood relations.

After she got pulled from the truck, Chelsea had fended off the MP patting her down and ran off into the night. No one had seen her since.

Taken by surprise, Maleko didn't have time to prevent Baird from pinning him. Unfortunately for Baird, the younger man had a good sixty pounds on him. Solice was a big, solid island boy. In a way, he reminded Dom a little of Tai.

Solice shoved Baird back with one hand, and the blond engineer stumbled back several steps before regaining his footing.

"Brah, you better watch who you're talking to," Solice said, hefting his Lancer so it rested on top of his shoulder and pointing a damning finger right at Baird's sternum. "You really think your girl coulda fought me off? _I let her go, man_. Didn't want to see nothing bad happen to a girl like that. I could've been court marshaledfor what I did for her."

"Well, don't do me or my friends any favors next time, asshole!" Baird shouted back. Cole was already beside him, making placating motions with one hand, trying to talk his fiery friend down and get him to cool it. At the very least, he convinced Baird to walk away. It would take some work to get him completely down off the ledge.

Dom hadn't realized Baird blamed himself for Chelsea's disappearance. His outburst positively reeked of a restless conscience. It came as a shock, especially considering he hadn't mentioned the disappearance since a few days after it happened. After all, it wasn't like Baird had a real vested interest in one of Dom's charges.

Then again, no one knew better than Dom how guilt could twist a man up inside and make him do crazy things. While watching Cole and Baird take a short timeout off to the side, Dom could only shake his head. He had to learn to keep his cool around Baird. Somehow, they had to make this work relationship sustainable. There wouldn't always be a Marcus or Cole there to get in the middle and play referee. They needed to learn to keep cool heads and deal with each other.

"Hey, Sarge," Maleko called, jogging to catch up with Dom who was on his way to get the Humvee.

Dom had the keys in one hand, and a whole lot on his mind. How would he survive a four hour trip in a hot vehicle with Baird and Solice? Could Baird and Cole take their own Humvee? After all, between Cole's new Thrashball bulk and Baird's ego, they could fill it.

"Hey, Sarge," Maleko repeated. "Did you know that girl, too?"

"She was my roommate," Dom answered dully. "She lost her place, so she was staying with us, trying to get back on her feet."

A breath hissed through Maleko's front teeth. Carlo did that sometimes. It was a cultural thing, a sign of indignation or frustration, a mixture of anger and disappointment. "Shit, Sarge, I'm sorry. If I'd known she would've been better off..."

"That's why we always follow protocol," Dom said, thinking back on the men who'd died when Marcus left his post, and what _he'd_ found in Maria's prison pod when he strayed off the path. He was a hypocrite. If he had it to do over again, Dom wouldn't change what he'd done. But it was the dawn of a new era, and these boys needed to learn to obey orders. _Do as I say, not as I do..._ "Even if sometimes it feels like the wrong thing to do. Unless you know for sure in your heart you've been given unlawful orders, you do it by the book. Hooah?"

"Hooah," Solice agreed, but the kid sure sounded down in the dumps.

"But for what it's worth, I appreciate what you tried to do for Chelsea," Dom said quietly. "And I'm sure she appreciated it, too. In your place, I probably would've done the same thing," he admitted somberly.

Twenty minutes later, the five of them were loaded up in their Humvee. Cole drove first, and Baird sat shotgun, clearly less than pleased, but at least content to stew silently for once. Dom got in the back, cramming in next to Private Gavin Wixler, a nineteen year old kid with a slow drawl, mocha-colored skin, a crazy PCD assigned wife, and a new beautiful baby girl.

The scenery outside slowly turned from green fields teeming with grazing cattle and occasional glimpses of the sea to rocky, scrub-grass covered hills with occasional glimpses of the sea. Since there wasn't much to look at outside, Wixler offered up his family photos for their momentary entertainment.

"They gave us a year to get ready to have her, once we got married," Wixler explained while working his wallet out from beneath his armor. "Since we're young, they'll give us two years before we're supposed to start working on the next one." He showed off the pictures of him holding his baby, Hallie. The girl was maybe six months old and chubby with a creamy complexion. She looked absolutely thrilled to be in her father's arms.

Dom smiled at seeing them, feeling his features soften. It was the first genuine smile to grace his face in a long, long time. It occurred to him that he didn't have any pictures of Carlo yet and Dom decided he'd rectify that the second he got back and saw the kid again.

After all, the only pictures he had of Chelsea were the ones Marcus insisted they take to document her injuries after she suffered a beating at work. The pictures were taken in preparation for her testimony against the man who'd beaten her. Dom still had them. He'd taken them to session with Miss. Gussin, showing his new therapist the Polaroid's of his former therapist's battered face and ribs.

Dom had absolutely no intention of taking the time he had with Carlo for granted. After all, any loved-one could be taken away in an instant. Even now, after the war.

"Ah, shit," Cole said, and he started to slow the Humvee. They were approximately two hours into their trip, and well over a hundred miles from Fort Collier.

"What's up?" Dom asked, putting a hand on Baird's seat and leaning forward to see out the windshield.

Cole and Baird exchanged a grim look, and then they both glanced back at Dom.

There were two trucks on the road ahead, blocking the way. They were not COG issue, and at least a dozen men were standing behind those vehicles, all armed.

"Cole, turn around," Dom ordered.

"Too late," Solice said, looking out the rear window. "Two more trucks coming up on our tail, Sarge."

Dom whipped his head around and confirmed two more trucks coming up behind them. Stranded. Raiders.

Shit. _Shit. _All right. A long time ago, he'd been trained for this. He'd been trained to think on his feet. And in the years since then, he'd retrained himself to let a squad leader to his thinking for him. But there was no Marcus here, and it was pointless to try to think like Marcus. Never in his life had Dom ever been able to think like Marcus, or understand Marcus, or really even predict what the hell Marcus might do next.

For the first time, it occurred to Dom that Marcus might just be mysterious because he was crazy.

"Baird, get the topographic map out of the glove compartment and find us a defensible location in these hills," Dom ordered.

"On it," Baird sounded off, already discretely unfolding the map below the dash.

"Cole, slow down, act like we're going to cooperate until you get direction from Baird. Solice, get on your comm. and send out a mayday to Control and anyone else on the COG band."

"I heard they're taking prisoners and ransoming them for cash and fuel," Wixler chimed in, and the kid sounded scared. Dom knew exactly what the young father was thinking. How can I leave my child without someone solid in her life to care for her?

On the other side of Wixler, Solice had a finger in his ear and was already online with Control.

Dom's hands went about checking his weapon for readiness without any conscious participation.

"We can't afford to surrender," Dom admitted. He knew this would be a tough pill for Wixler to swallow, and Dom didn't blame him a bit. "If we do, they'll grow bolder. They'll attack bigger, higher profile targets. We owe it to our fellow soldiers to fight to the last man if it comes to that, but it won't." Dom checked his mag, slapped it back into his rifle, and then let the bolt slide home with a fresh round in the chamber. "No one's dying today."

His chainsaw had gas, and the chain was at perfect tension. Dom hadn't killed anyone in well over a year, since before he'd found Carlo, and unfortunately it had been too much to hope that he'd get to live out the rest of his life without firing on another man. As Dom went through the motions of checking his rifle, grenades, and other equipment, Wixler copied him, calmed by the routine.

"I got it," Baird said after a few seconds of tense silence, his finger pinpointing a spot on the map. "Cole, get ready to make a quick right turn. You guys might want to hang on, this is going to be a rough ride."

Grabbing the 'oh, shit' bar overhead, Dom took a deep breath and prepared for the worst.

To put it mildly, his first day in charge of a squad was going to be far more exciting than he'd planned for.

* * *

_AN: And...queue the cliffhanger! Yes, I'm evil. Oh, so evil :D Leave lots of reviews and I'll do my best to keep my evilness on a regular schedule._


	36. Part 2: Chapter 5

_AN: To the reader who pointed out Dom is a corporal. I did look it up on Gearspedia, and it says he is a corporal. However, I don't think the people at Epic or Traviss have any idea what a corporal is, especially in the American military. The rank of corporal implies a position of leadership, a junior NCO (non-commissioned officer), often the role of sergeant without the pay of a sergeant. There are only so many people who 'apply' for sergeant who actually get promoted every month, and so sometimes an enlisted man in the role of squad leader will be promoted from specialist (or similar rank) to corporal (typically this isn't permanent, and eventually they get promoted to sergeant, I don't think it's actually super common in infantry). __Baird is a corporal in that sometimes he takes charge of men, sometimes an entire squad._ Since Dom has absolutely no leadership responsibilities, I've ranked him as I've seen him in the games and in the books - in the role of a private. He would probably be a higher grade of private, or even a specialist (being a specialist at the age Dom was when E-day occurred is not uncommon), but not a corporal in the sense of the term as I know it. That is why Dom is classified as a private in this story. 

* * *

Clay's light nap ended when the big rig hit a pot hole, giving him just enough of a jerk to bring him irrevocably to wakefulness. Casting his gaze around the cab of the truck, he found Charlie still in the driver's seat beside him, Tina still riding in the back, and their small convoy still making steady progress down a winding, dusty highway cutting through rolling hills dotted with brown scrub grass.

Stretching both arms over his head, Clay arched his back until it popped and then twisted to either side.

Charlie raised one eyebrow at him. "You going to make it?" she asked, using her 'boy' voice. When it was just the two of them, she'd started to use her real voice more frequently.

"Just working out the kinks. I'm telling you kids, it's rough getting old. Your joints get stiff, you actually have to shave more than once a year..." He gave Charlie a teasing look, one eyebrow arched. _Yeah, __honey, I'm talking about you. _

Seated on the bunk in the back of the truck, Tina giggled, appreciating any effort at teasing their driver. Two months after the hotel fire that brought Charlie's secret to light, the rest of the team still had no clue there was a second woman in their midst. Tina's major crush on Charlie had amused Clay before, but now he had to bite back fits of laughter. He wished he could tell Dan the truth and have a partner to share in his mirth, but he'd promised Charlie he wouldn't.

He still didn't know Charlie's real name, but she'd started to open up to him a little. At first she probably thought he'd spill the beans, or take advantage of her, but after a few weeks she'd started to loosen up, enjoy not needing to pretend around him. Lately, they'd been almost friendly. When alone, anyway.

Tina had begged to ride in the truck today so she could 'watch and learn.' Karver had grudgingly allowed it, so long as Clay or Dan rode shotgun. Even so, it was a nod of trust to their driver. When it came to his daughter, Erek could be a bit...overly protective...

Tina sat delicately on the edge of the bunk, her long legs crossed, one supporting arm behind her allowed her to push her ample assets forward. Her thick eyelashes batted up a storm. She'd gotten her dark features from the mother she'd lost in childhood, because her father was a northern blond giant. Which left Clay wondering where exactly Tina had stocked her bag of 'come hither' tricks. Without a female influence in her life, where had that behavior come from?

Glancing between Tina and Charlie a few times, he started to wonder if perhaps he should advise Charlie to express interest in Tina. Currently, the stoic non-acknowledgement of Tina's obvious affections seemed to only make her more determined.

Then again, if Charlie expressed interest, Tina might just jump her bones. The younger woman positively secreted suppressed sexual energy without much tempering maturity. Clay wondered sometimes if Karver had a plan for Tina. The girl was over eighteen, and very aware men liked to look at her. With such a nomadic existence, she was bound to run into trouble eventually. Erek couldn't watch her every minute.

If Tina ever slipped into Clay's bed after dark, he'd have a hard time turning her down, and Clay generally wished no harm upon the girl—or on himself, because if Karver couldn't kill him, Dan surely would.

"We should stop for lunch soon. I'm starving," Charlie said.

"I packed you a lunch, Charlie," Tina almost crooned, causing Charlie to visibly flinch.

Tina wasn't the brightest tool in the shed. Sometimes Clay felt a little sorry for her. She tried so hard to get Charlie to like her, and she had no idea why '_he_' didn't return her affections. Maybe Charlie should tell the girl '_he_' liked men? It would be the truth, although not in the way Tina would think. Then again, if that sort of rumor got back to Fitz, life with the team might become unlivable for Charlie.

With an amused grin shaping his face, Clay grabbed the CB handset off the dash and depressed the button on the side with his thumb. "What do you think, Danny? Is it lunch time?" He released the button and after a moment his brother's voice interrupted the static.

"I'm surprised you made it to oh-fifteen-hundred, Clayton. Usually by now you've gone beyond bitching about being hungry and started threatening to go into a coma."

Clay almost slipped up. He almost responded with some flippant remark about not needing food when he was surrounded by such delicious young women, or working up an appetite while satisfying the needs of his female company. Something stupid like that. Something that would make the rest of the team give him weird looks, and might even give away Charlie's secret. He'd have to watch out for that.

Clay's large thumb pressed down the button on the handset. "Yeah, well. You know Chuck. He's a slave driver." With that said, he flashed Charlie a wicked grin, pleased to see the barest hint of a smile turning up one corner of her mouth even as she shook her head.

"Take your COG oh-fuckteen-hundred hours and shove it, Carmine," Fitz spat over the line. "Out in the real world we use standard time."

"Standard time for a substandard man. Roger that," Dan fired back, his voice dripping with disdainful sarcasm.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clay could see Charlie shaking her head, lips pursed. There went Fitz, making unnecessary trouble again. He'd backed off Charlie a little since the burning hotel incident. Ever since then Dan had railed Fitz at every turn, nailing his ass for every little mistake, and sometimes things got tense at the team powwows.

"Knock it off, both of you!" Karver came online, once again attempting to keep the peace with all the grace and subtlety of a sledge hammer.

The road widened down a straight stretch, and that's where their team pulled over, getting out to stretch their legs and eat the food they'd packed for lunch. Sometimes they drove for days between settlements and had to buy enough rations to carry them through, although Clay and Dan had become proficient hunters and in many areas wildlife was plentiful. When the two brothers invited Charlie to join them hunting, they found out she could indeed handle the shotgun she toted around, although she struggled with Clay's Lancer because the chainsaw and fuel tank made it so front heavy. Without a great deal of upper body strength, the small fuel tank on a Lancer and the sloshing liquid within played havoc on one's ability to aim consistently.

Ideally, Charlie needed a modified Lancer without any bayonet. Or a Hammerburst. She'd expressed interest in obtaining a pistol to carry on her belt, similar to the service pistol Dan carried. She didn't care for Clay's Boltoc, even though the revolver was more reliable and had more stopping power. It would've been easier to procure a Boltoc for her. Although it wasn't uncommon for Gears to walk away with their armor and weapons—severance compensation after fourteen years of service without pay—once discharged, it often became difficult to procure COG weaponry. Karver had paid a hefty price at auction for the two APCs he currently owned, and even then he'd had to scrape together two working vehicles out of three damaged units he bought.

After eating lunch, their group started to load up. Fitz took off in the smaller APC, leaving them to scout ahead. He didn't like hanging with the rest of them much, and everyone relaxed a little after he went off on his own. Dan piloted the bigger APC, driving back the way they'd come to scout their tail.

"Tina, you come along with me," Karver called just before his daughter could hop into the eighteen wheeler's cab ahead of Clay. "I need you to navigate when we get to the city."

Tina pouted a little, but she went without much fuss and got into the Humvee with her father. They too headed off down the road, soon making the next bend in the road and riding out of sight.

Charlie came around from the back of the trailer. He'd done a spot check to make sure none of the radio equipment they were transporting had walked away, and they hadn't picked up any unwanted guests.

"Tina gone?" she asked, slipping out of her boy character even faster than usual. She slipped off her bandanna, letting tangles of blonde hair fall down on her cheeks and the back of her neck. She used the cloth to wipe the sweat from her forehead, finger-brushing her lengthening hair. If she let it get too much longer, she'd have a tougher time keeping it covered, although at this point she did still look like a boy. The grit and raggedness of her general appearance went a long way toward hiding her true sex.

"They're all gone," Clay informed her, watching with mild interest while she found a place to rest her back against the cab of the truck, allowing herself a long, tired sigh.

"I can't hide from them forever. Eventually they'll find out, and then I won't have anything," she said, dabbing at her face with the blue handkerchief and casting her gaze down toward her boots. He knew she wasn't proud of the deception, and Clay often wondered why she didn't just end it. Somehow she seemed to think the others wouldn't understand, and Clay couldn't talk her out of the notion. She'd more than proved herself, so perhaps there was some other reason why she didn't come clean? Clay never asked. Whenever he started to push for answers, she clammed up.

Clay shrugged, moving to stand in front of her. "Honestly, I can't wait to see their faces when they find out," he said, speaking the truth. Clay knew Dan wouldn't give a damn about Charlie. Karver might, but he'd been in business with Charlie for over six months already, and business had been good. He might cut Charlie's wages for deceiving them, but would he really risk losing such a valuable driver?

Fitz would be the hard sell. Tina might cry, and that wouldn't be pleasant, either.

"Thanks for not ratting me out, Clay," she said after a minute of getting lost in thought. "I know I didn't give you any reason to trust me, but you did. You've been great."

A smirk crept onto Clay's face. He stepped a little closer and brushed her jaw-length hair back over her ear. "You know, usually I hear about how great I am after I've gotten a girl in the sack."

Charlie smiled in return. He suspected she still didn't quite know what to make of his flirting, but she'd learned to let it roll off her better. It had gotten harder to shock her, but easier to make her smile.

"I'll bet you do," she countered.

Giving her a chuck on the chin, he turned to go get in the truck on the passenger side, only to feel her catch his shirt with one hand, the light pull giving him pause.

"Nothing I don't ask for, right?" she asked, eyes downcast.

Clay nodded, hands down at his sides. She'd be making all the first moves. "Nothing changes when you cross that line, babe. I can keep it separate if you can."

After some hesitation, she tugged him a little closer, her hands sliding under his arms at the elbows, her touch against his ribs affectionate, if not entirely sure. She didn't quite go ahead and kiss him, but she did step into his embrace and breathed him in, making the lightest contact everywhere she touched, like a bird ready to take flight at the first sign of trouble. One of Clay's large hands went around to support her back, and the other skimmed the nape of her neck; just the barest touch of his fingertips so he wouldn't startle her. She'd pretended to be a boy for a long time. None of this would come easily, even without whatever baggage she still had from before.

Then, all of a sudden, she relaxed. It almost felt like she went boneless, sagging against him. Clay wondered if she felt the same way he did after the Locusts fell. So loose it made him worthless, because for just a moment he could rest.

He kissed her. She didn't ask for it, or initiate it, but it felt right. Some kisses were like avalanches, starting off slow and building to a raging fury. This one came like a steady summer rain; even, warm and healing.

When it ended, he grinned, pressing his forehead against her hair. She really was short. A foot shorter than him. He chuckled.

"What?" she asked, but she sounded too complacent to care what he found amusing.

"I've seen you half naked," he said, his grin turning cheesy.

The comment earned him a disapproving eye roll, and he savored it. "Keep it up, buddy. At this rate you'll never see me all naked."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I think I'm growing on you, babe." With that, his left hand gave her butt a squeeze through her cargos and he could've sworn she shivered against him. But that didn't stop her from smacking him on the shoulder for his impertinence.

"You watch it, bud," she said, without any venom. It was the first time she'd flirted with him in return.

Clay let her slide out of his arms, amused by her rebuff. They piled into the cab of the truck, strapped in and got underway.

Charlie tied the bandanna back over her hair before turning over the truck's engine and putting it in gear, but she didn't quite make it back into character. During the ride her eyes were bright and she seemed genuinely happy for once, almost at home. Slouched down in his seat, Clay studied her for a while, amused. He couldn't help but take a little bit of pride in lifting her spirits.

They didn't make it far down the road before the truck's emergency radio with the large antenna on top of the cab began to pick up COG emergency transmissions.

Even though Karver's operation ran within the limits of the law, he still liked to keep an ear to the ground. More than once, communications on the military emergency band had warned them away from road hazards, skirmishes with Stranded, and even inclement weather. The APCs and the Humvee all had smaller radios set to pick up COG transmissions, and unlike the battery-powered handsets they carried for inter-team communication, these radios were hardwired into the vehicles. Since they had a larger antenna range, they needed more juice. Clay wasn't entirely sure where Karver got the radios, since the COG tended to keep a tight grip on them. The COG decryption key was programmed into each radio, and that meant anyone who had one could listen into the military's secure communications.

The radio crackled, and at first the voice only came through in bits, but the message sounded urgent.

Reaching forward, Clay played with the various knobs on the radio beneath the dash on the passenger side of the truck, trying to get the voice to come in clearer. Finally, he could hear the broadcast well enough to discern it.

"This is Sergeant Dominic Santiago, requesting assistance. My squad is pinned down in the hills off highway 85 by over a dozen armed Stranded..." Santiago listed off his location in longitude and latitude, and Clay punched the numbers into the truck's old GPS system.

"They're close. Ten miles north off a parallel highway," Clay said.

When he glanced over at Charlie, her jaw was clenched and her knuckles had turned white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. She didn't speak. Maybe she was afraid. Whenever they went into the city, she always avoided the COG. Maybe she was running from them.

Clay fumbled with the battery-powered CB handset, depressing the button even as he began to reach behind his seat for the duffel bag containing his plate armor. His fingers wrestled with the stubborn zipper.

"Dan, you hear that transmission from Santiago?"

"I didn't catch all of it. Can't ever get this damn thing to work right. You get the location, Clay?"

"Yeah, I got it. They're ten miles north of us. The turn-off is coming up in a couple miles. Karver, I know Santiago. I served with him. The man wouldn't call for help if he weren't seriously fucked. Let me and Dan go and help him."

Static ensued after Clay released the button. He waited for a long beat before another voice came on, but it was Fitz, not Karver. "Karver went ahead to make arrangements at the delivery. He's expecting us to be there in a couple hours."

"Charlie can drive on ahead with you, Fitz. Let me and Dan lend a hand here. You know Karver would love it if the COG owed him a favor."

"Absolutely not. That APC is a company asset. You two jerk-offs can walk if you really want to help, but I promise you won't have jobs even if you do make it back alive."

Dan came on after that and just exploded, tearing Fitz a new asshole. In a rare display of violent emotion, Dan insulted Fitz's manhood, his mother, his pathetic existence on the planet-which, Dan promised to end the next time Fitz's ugly face came within range. There were few things Dan took as seriously as commitment to his fellow soldier. He took the Commando creed very seriously: Squad above all else.

With the turn-off quickly approaching, Clay felt helpless. In spite of his generally flippant attitude, he did require a job. And this was a damn good job. If he and Dan took off in the APC, Karver would hear the story from Fitz. He might report the APC stolen and then they'd have warrants on their heads.

All of a sudden Charlie stomped on the brake, bringing the rig to a squealing halt right in the middle of the t-intersection. She put the truck in gear once more, cranking the steering wheel over until the truck's nose pointed north. Clay soon became aware of his jaw hanging open, slack in disbelief. All he could do was stare at her. This was the absolute last thing he'd expected her to do.

When they'd gotten up to speed on their new course, Charlie held out a hand to Clay and simply said, "Give me the radio," and Clay complied.

"Fitz," she said, addressing the formerly Stranded man directly for the first time in Clay's memory, her voice cool and flat enough to perfectly balance a level. "I'm going to drive a vehicle into that skirmish and save those soldiers. It can be your APC or it can be this rig, but I'm driving in there, and I'd love to see you stop me."

"I'll make sure you're fired. I'll make sure you never work again! Do you understand me, boy?" Fitz had lost control of the situation, and it showed in the slightly hysterical note in his voice.

Unfazed, Charlie pushed down the button once more. "You haul ass and get that APC to me, Fitz. I'm pulling over in another couple of miles. You can stay with the truck and have my job for all I care, you cowardly son-of-a-bitch." With that, she tossed the CB back onto the bunk.

"Goddamn, that was sexy." Clay couldn't help the wide grin spreading across his face. He pulled his chest plates from the duffel and threw them on over his head, securing various belts at his side. "My little girl's all grown up and I'm so turned on it's ridiculous."

Charlie didn't smile. Instead of savoring giving Fitz what-for, she seemed preoccupied, focused but unsure. Her eyes darted back and forth across the road, anxious and almost worried. "Clay, we need to get there in time," she said.

Unable to fathom why this mattered to her so much, Clay didn't bother wasting the brain power on figuring it out. If he didn't find out when they got there, then he'd ask her later. Reaching over, he patted her on the back, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. "We will," he promised. "And after we kick their Stranded asses, I'm going to do my damndest to get you in bed."

Clay wasn't really sure how Dan had gotten suited up in his armor while driving, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. When Charlie pulled over, Dan pulled up along the side of the road behind them. He'd had their back door the entire trip and when he got out of his APC he was already suited up with Lancer ready.

Fitz pulled up behind the first APC and jumped down, looking like he'd love to chew all of them out. By then they all had their boots on dirt and Charlie had locked up the truck, her Gnasher slung over one shoulder and a Hammerburst from the truck's lock box cradled in her arms. The Hammerburst suited her better than a Lancer because it was shorter, lighter, and had no bayonet. It kicked harder, but she'd used it before in target practice with Clay and Dan and she'd done well with it.

"I'm not going to let you do this." Fitz was all but foaming at the mouth while walking toward them. Flecks of spit flew when he shouted. "Karver will have your asses and mine! He'll fire all of us!"

When Fitz came within reach, Dan drew his sidearm and placed the muzzle against Fitz's temple. All of them stopped, and for a moment silence ensued.

"Now you can tell him we put a gun to your head," Dan informed him. "I'm not wasting another second arguing with you. It's your choice. Either man up and get on that APC turret or stay here with the truck. Give me your keys."

Fitz forked over the keys. He didn't make a move to get up on the turret, even after Dan holstered his pistol.

"Charlie's right. You are a coward," Dan growled in farewell, jogging over to collect Fitz's APC.

Charlie slid behind the steering wheel of the first APC, and Clay swung up onto the turret. He had the GPS from the truck, and set it where Charlie could see it even as she pulled out, screeching the tires and quickly rolling up to well over a hundred miles per hour. Even though the road was paved, their high speed travel kicked up the dust that had blown over the seldom-used road. Behind them, Dan kept up just fine in the lighter APC.

"Get on the radio," Charlie said, navigating the bumpy road at high speed with uncanny efficiency. She was completely focused. "Tell them we're coming."

Clay reached down to grab the handset from the radio set in the center column. "You got your ears on, Santiago? This is Clay Carmine, over."

Santiago came on after a minute and he sounded vastly relieved, "Ah, shit, Clay. It's damn good to hear your voice. Please tell me you're coming with a unit." The sound of sporadic gun fire could be heard in the background of the transmission.

"Negative," Clay said. He didn't have time to talk and then check the turret fifty-cal, so he was multi-tasking, checking the belt of ammo feeding into the action, and making sure he had additional ammunition at hand. "I'm privately employed these days, but I've got three rifles and two APCs with fully functional turrets closing on your position, and we're coming in blazing hot. I'd say we're about a klick out."

"Shit, we'll take it. They've got us cornered from three sides in rough terrain and we've got a sheer cliff at our backs. I'm going to need your turret APC to come in behind them on the high ground. I'll give you the vector when you get closer. We can cover the second APC on the way in and give you a man for the turret."

"Roger that. You boys hang tight," Clay said, sliding back the bolt to double check there was a round in the chamber. "Help is on the way."


	37. Part 2: Chapter 6

The wind had kicked up tenfold over the past twenty minutes, almost like a storm was sliding down off the high, rocky hills. Except the wind was hot, not cold; a fiery blast of heat whipping up dust in the valley and howling like a demon in their ears. To the west lay tall, craggy hills; a small range parallel to the coast with crests ranging from five hundred to a thousand feet tall. Like most of the landscape in the area, the hills were bare of anything except rocks, dirt and the most drought resistant vegetation. It didn't rain much this time of year.

During the course of their off-road journey from highway 85, the terrain had become more and more inhospitable as they worked their way north in the Humvee, leaving the highway to find cover in the rough landscape. Climbing up into the hills, Baird had guided them to a ravine with a gentler slope on the south side and a steeper slope leading up to a sheer two hundred foot cliff on the north side. They hadn't intended to make their stand at the top of the north slope with the cliff at their backs, but when the Raiders cut off their escape at the west end of the ravine, they'd had no choice.

"What are they waiting for?" Wixler asked.

"They're hoping we'll surrender," Dom explained, shifting in his crouch. "They might think we're out of ammunition."

All five of them had taken cover behind the armored Humvee with the cliff face a mere twenty feet from their backs. They had the high ground, sitting at the highest point a vehicle could climb on the steep side of the ravine. In the wet season, water likely flowed down from the hills and filled this ravine, running out to the ocean fifty miles west. In the peak of the dry season, the ravine and the softly sloping hills to the south were bone dry. The wind coming down from the higher hills whipped up small cyclones in the silt-like dust left behind in the creek bed, but the cliff protected Dom's squad from the worst of the wind. It was the Raiders in the valley below who had to worry about dust blowing into their eyes.

Close to sixteen Stranded men had parked their pick-ups in an arc around the cliff, and they'd piled out of their vehicles. For a while, they'd exchanged fire in short bursts. One too-bold Stranded man had attempted to charge up the hill at them, thinking his friends could cover his ascent. He'd fallen face-first in the dirt after Solice put a tight Lancer grouping in his chest. After that, the Raiders seemed content to sit back and wait them out. After all, who would come for them all the way out here? Even long-distance radio communication was shaky at best.

For the past few minutes, both sides had gone quiet. Dom had ordered a cease-fire to conserve ammo while they waited for Clay's APCs to arrive. They were lucky their former brother-in-arms had been close. Something about these hills made it very difficult to establish a line to Control.

"They know they can't take us easy, so why not give up? Pick an easier target to kidnap? I got a baby girl at home. Don't any of them got kids?" Wixler asked.

Solice snorted. "Why don't you go down and ask them, brah? Maybe invite their kids to have a tea party with your kid."

"Did it ever occur to you geniuses that they aren't here to kidnap us?" Baird asked, enough edge to his voice to cause the two young privates to fall silent. Baird had his lancer slung across his back and he was preparing five blocks of C4, placing a detonator on each block.

"Why else would they go to all this effort?" Wixler finally asked.

Dom noticed Baird's mouth tighten, just fractionally. "Santiago, get your men focused," the engineer grumbled. "I'd hate to have someone blow a hand off today."

With a short eye roll, Dom commenced going down the long list of safety rules related to handling plastic explosive. Wixler and Solice listened, but their main focus remained on the Raiders. They were ready for action, but loose. Once again, Dom was glad he hadn't been given any green men on this trip. Even though Baird was a pain in the ass, Dom was pretty damn glad to have him and Cole along too. It'd been a long time since he'd been deep in the shit with total strangers.

Dom was crouched next to Baird by the Humvee's front wheel-well and his legs felt exhausted from maintaining a crouch for so long, even with the catcher-pads on the backs of his calves. It'd been a long time since he'd had to maintain cover for an extended period of time and Dom had started to wonder if he might be getting a little too old for this sort of thing. At sixteen he could've stayed in cover all day without so much as a cramp, but now his knees and quads certainly didn't appreciate it much. Dom shifted, trying to get the blood flowing to the muscles in his lower limbs.

Finally giving up and taking a knee behind the Humvee's front tire, Dom accepted the block of plastic explosive Baird handed to him, complete with wireless detonator, and handed it down the line. Solice was last in line, taking cover at the Humvee's rear bumper, and he ended up holding onto the first block of explosive. Because they were doing work similar to their efforts at Bender Fields, the vehicle assigned to them had a small lock-box for explosive demolition materials and they'd been given some ordinance to fill it with before heading out.

They had a plan. A fast-and-dirty plan they'd begun to cook up before Clay's call came in, and until they added in two turreted vehicles, it had been a woefully inadequate plan. Dom hoped it was solid now. This was the first time he and Baird had really put their heads together, the same way Marcus and Baird used to put their heads together, and Dom hoped the result would get them all home in one piece.

"You look nervous," Baird commented while inserting the final two detonators in the final two blocks of plastique.

"And you look like an asshole," Dom quipped, realizing that Baird, in his own inflammatory sort of way, was coaching him in being a Sergeant. Poking and prodding until he forced Dom to face the moments when he slipped back into the habits and attitudes of a private.

"That's the spirit." Baird handed Dom one of the final two blocks. There were five bricks total, one per man.

Dom placed a finger to his ear. "You ready, Clay?"

"Roger that. I'm in position east of you guys with APC one. Dan's in position south of you at the head of the valley with APC two. We're ready to roll on your signal."

Dom dropped his hand from his ear, turned to Baird and said, "Hit it."

"All right," Baird said, taking a knee and looking down the line. Every single pair of eyes were on him. "We are going to count backwards together from three to one. On one, toss your block straight out as far as you can into the valley. Got it?"

Dom's squad all nodded their understanding.

Baird shifted around so his back pressed against the Humvee. "Andddd...start counting back."

In unison, all five of them counted back, "Three, two, one."

Five blocks of C-4 flew through the air, landing in a semi-circle on the valley floor.

A distinct silence fell over the ravine, made thick by the heat and the moment of fear experienced by the Stranded men surrounding them. In the distance, a crow cawed, and then the Raiders all burst out laughing. The C-4 bricks had all fallen far short of the semi-circle of trucks, and a brick of that size exploding in an open area wouldn't reach any of the Raiders.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Baird said. He powered on the transmitter, flipped up the plastic safety switch covering the button, and punched it with his thumb.

All five bricks blew, and the blast didn't come close to touching the Stranded men, or their trucks. However, the wall of dirt blown straight up into the air caught on the howling wind, descending upon the line of Raider trucks like a deadly sandstorm in a desert.

"Throw your smokes!" Dom ordered.

Five smoke grenades sailed into the storm, covering those areas where the dust wall was transparent. All of a sudden they had a curtain to work behind, and the untrained Raiders were thrown into a panic.

Dom depressed the comm in his ear. "You get our signal, Clay?"

Amused, Clay responded with a, "Loud and clear, Sarge."

The dust wall was even more impressive than Clay could've imagined. The dry silt left behind in the intermittent river bed after thousands of rainy seasons had lifted up, transformed into a black, roiling veil. Smoke 'nades flashed in the turmoil and the added smoke and sparks sent the Stranded Raiders scrambling for their truck cabs all the faster.

The old APC started bouncing along up the final hill, the heavy springs and independant suspension allowed the huge rubber tires to run over the rough terrain without bouncing them around too badly. The way they bounced along was almost pleasant compared to some of the rides Clay had been on in his life.

When the APC surged over the hill across the valley from Delta's location, coming over at an angle instead of head on, the tires left the ground momentarily before they crashed down on the other side. Most of the Raiders had already mounted back up on their vehicles, choking and coughing on the dust and smoke, some of them simply running for it. They were blind, panicked, and absolutely unprepared to defend against an attack from their rear.

With a vicious grin on his face, Clay's large hands flexed on the twin handles of the mounted machine gun, holding on against the jarring motion of the vehicle, aiming down the barrel. Squeezing the trigger, he opened fire on the raider trucks, using short, controlled bursts, the powerful kickback vibrating through his entire torso.

Charlie made them a hard target by strafing back and forth across the hill's face, the APC's big tires spitting gravel, violently shredding the turf and bare vegetation on the hillside. She'd get them going one direction by gunning the engine and shifting gears, quickly picking up momentum, and then she'd turn the wheel fast, using the clutch, accelerator and breaks in tandem to quickly snap their momentum in the opposite direction without stopping or exposing the broad side of their vehicle. She pushed the vehicle for all it was worth. The sandy terrain made these maneuvers possible, but Charlie made them artful. After being so careful with the rig all the time, Charlie probably needed a chance to let loose. After all, as long as they survived, who cared if the transmission fell out of the APC a few thousand miles sooner?

The careening APC scattered a group of men trying to escape by running up the hill. Charlie used the vehicle as a weapon against close targets while constantly keeping the turret in play to maintain a long-range assault. She never made a turn that interrupted Clay's line of fire, and she stayed far enough back to keep them above the settling black cloud and able to shoot down into the valley, preventing the chance they might accidentally shoot through the smoke and hit an ally. The small amount of return fire they did experience either missed them completely or skipped harmlessly off the APC's reinforced armor.

The turret tasted blood over and over again, making more racket than the rest of the skirmish combined, including engine noise, the howling wind, and the screams of dying men. Fire blazed out of the end of the barrel. Clay started with the trucks, blowing out the windshields before turning his deadly rain upon the armed men in the back of the trucks. Immobilize, and eliminate. Rinse, repeat. The heavy rounds didn't just kill men, they obliterated, sometimes not leaving behind much more than a pink mist.

The green tracer rounds showed clearly where the machine gun fire was going, and in no time they cut a deadly swath through the center of the Raider's line. When he ran short on his current belt of ammo, Clay queued up a new one and then continued the assault, hardly missing a beat. He could feel the heat coming off the gun and the end of the barrel glowed.

Before the south end of the Raider's line could get moving, Dan broke through, coming around the bend in the creek bed so fast none of the Raiders saw the second APC coming. Men didn't even have time to jump clear before Dan rammed two half-ton pick-ups sitting nose-to-tail with the reinforced front grill of his APC, crushing the front quarter panel on one and destroying the rear-end of the other. Both trucks spun nearly all the way around, throwing men piled in the back to the ground. After breaking through the line, Dan made a b-line for the soldiers stranded at the top of the hill on the other side of the curtain.

"Delta, we have your exit covered," Dan said over the radio. "Anyone want to ride with me?"

"Heh, I'll ride with you, baby," a deep voice said over the radio. "The Cole Train owes these boys a whoopin'."

When the smoke and dust cleared enough for Clay to see Dan's APC again, it was leading Delta's Humvee out of the valley, both vehicles moving slowly so the three soldiers still on foot could take cover behind them, moving in infantry formation and firing on any Stranded left to fight, leaving no survivors. By then it was over. The Raiders were either dead or were gunned down when they tried to flee the ravine on foot. None of the Stranded vehicles made it out of the ravine.

Dan's voice briefly came over the radio. "They're gonna blow the blocks out of those remaining trucks so they can't be recovered, then we're going to hit the road. Cole tells me he wants to take point."

With a wide grin of victory on his face, Clay reached down, grabbing the handset from the center column. "Roger that, Danny. We'll cover the back door. Where these boys headed?"

"Same place we are. An outpost on the coast a couple hours down the road. Figure we can all ride there together."

"That sounds like a plan," Clay said. "I can't wait to see the look on Fitz's face when we pick him up. Shit, I can't wait to see Karver's face when Fitz tells him you put a gun to his head."

Dan chuckled over the line. "Yeah. Me either."

Returning the handset to its holder, Clay chucked Charlie on the shoulder with the back of his hand. "Hey, what's wrong with you?" he asked. Instead of basking in the team's shared success, she seemed almost mahogany, quiet with a grim look on her face. He'd seen that look before. It was the one she wore whenever she knew she had to do something unpleasant, and she was absolutely determined to do it anyway.

"I know some of those guys. I owe them a lot. This past year, they've probably thought I was dead and this is the first chance I've had to let them know I'm okay," she said, staring out of the APC's windshield at the Humvee, and the four men piling into it once the engines on the Raider pick-ups were adequately blown to bits and the frames were well on their way to becoming burned-out husks of metal.

So that was why she'd been so determined to help them. It'd seemed a little strange because she always had an eye out for the COG, avoiding them whenever possible. Most cities had special in-routes for semis, and Karver usually went ahead at the checkpoints because he had the official documents clearing them for city access. Whenever Charlie had to speak to an MP, she become almost completely blank. No emotion, no expression. It was like she held her breath in every way she could until they passed safely through.

Clay had thought perhaps Charlie really had been a soldier once, and couldn't stand the thought of leaving the men here to die. Maybe that was part of it, but he still didn't know her yet. The mystery should've warned him off, but Clay liked puzzles. Charlie had many small threads, and the more he tugged and teased, the more mysterious she became. That was what made her so very attractive to him. He wanted to know everything about her.

Clay shrugged. "You want to go out there and tell them? I'll go with you."

Charlie shook her head. "They know who I really am, and I'm not ready for that to be public knowledge."

"If you're worried about Dan, I don't think he'll tell."

"I'm worried about that guy," Charlie said, motioning with her head to the last man getting into the Humvee. He was an Islander, young but solid. Charlie didn't elaborate on her concerns with regard to the young Islander private, but Clay wished she would. He was curious. "If I could just talk to Dom, get him alone..."

"Cheer up, Chuck, I got this," Clay said, reaching once more for the handset. "Hey, Santiago. You boys heading back to base tonight or what?"

The Humvee was loaded, and Dan cautiously led their small convoy out of the valley, heading back toward the highway across the rough landscape. The Humvee followed after, and Charlie brought up the rear.

Dom's voice came over the radio after a moment. "Why? You got something in mind?"

"Just thought maybe we could all go out tonight, grab some drinks. This outpost we're coming up on has a damn good strip bar."

"Now _that_ sounds like a plan," another voice chimed in from the Humvee. Clay recognized the voice of his former squad leader, Damon Baird. "You hear that, Cole?"

"We going to a strip club tonight?" Cole asked.

"Not unless I say so," Dom reminded. He _was _in charge, after all. He had the stripes.

If Clay recalled correctly, Baird had his stripes at one point...and then lost them, and then got them back, and lost them again... The man bounced between sergeant and corporal as often as Prescott flip-flopped his political stance. Not that it meant much. A corporal basically was a sergeant with a lower pay grade, and since none of them were getting paid at the time...

"May I remind you that we all could've died today?" Baird said, dryly. "Man, if you make me sit on my ass and twiddle my thumbs tonight, I'm going to punch you. In the face."

"Gotta take your fun where you can get it, Sarge," Cole chimed in. They were a familiar bunch. Most new sergeants wouldn't have taken that sort of shit off their underlings.

Clay noted Santiago's two privates didn't chime in on the conversation—they'd probably correctly concluded they wouldn't get away with such candor—but Clay'd bet they were on the edge of their seats, waiting for a decision to come in.

A long pause ensued before Dom came back on the line. "I'd rather get back to base tonight, see Carlo. But if Marcus needs more time for the survey and Control clears it, we'll stay out and I'll let you guys off duty for the night."

Cheers ensued from the two privates in the background. Clay didn't listen to the conversation any further. He replaced the handset and hopped down from the turret, squeezing Charlie's shoulder. "Now you have to come out with us."

Slightly slouched with one casual hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, she quirked an eyebrow at him. "I'll bet you're real happy with yourself. You're finally forcing me to go to a strip club."

Clay grinned unabashedly. He'd tried to guilt Charlie into going out to a club before, but she'd claimed coming down with a cold, and wanted a good night of sleep before a long run. Just when Clay was about to pull out the big guns and imply Charlie didn't want to go because 'he' liked guys, Karver intervened, making clear how he felt about anyone harassing his business-oriented driver.

Rubbing Charlie's shoulder, Clay grinned, "Oh yeah, and I'm going to pay a train of girls to give you lap dances. You'll have to be pretty clever to get a moment alone with Santiago, because your face is going to be motor-boated between a pair of double-d's all night, Chuck."

With a small scoff and a look of disgust on her face, Charlie shifted gears as they finally climbed back onto the road and their convoy began to pick up speed. "Well, try not to pop the buttons off your fly while you're going broke humiliating me."

"That would require buying a tighter pair of pants, but I'm confident I could do it," he teased, taking a knee behind the driver's seat and letting his chin rest on her shoulder. "_If_ that's what you're into. I can't always tell; you make it _so _hard sometimes." The tone of voice he used made it clear the sort of 'hard' he meant would make her gasp and moan in a dark room. It was something of a self-fulfilling prophesy, because thinking of her small body under his much larger one in a dark room definitely made things firm, at the very least.

She gave him a look out of the corner of her eye, and then just shook her head, ignoring the smug look on his face. His expression so clearly said, '_I'm thinking about fucking you senseless and I think it's funny you act like you don't think about it too_.'

Clay slid a hand around the seat to her front, gently rubbing her stomach just above where the seat belt ran across her hips, his large hand making slow circles spanning from her breast bone to just below her naval. She didn't protest. Not at first, anyway.

"Do you have any idea how sexy you are when you're kicking ass?" he asked, his voice hitting a low note most girls found irresistible. "If we could get a room right now I'd be begging _you_ for it, babe."

"Clay," she said softly. "I was involved with one of those guys. Before things could take off, I was separated from them by—unforeseen circumstances. I didn't say anything to you before because—well, because I don't tell you much, honestly—and I didn't think I'd ever see him again..."

"Was it serious?" he asked, the sensual circles he'd been making on her midriff grinding to a halt.

Taking a deep breath, her nostrils flared when she let out a deep sigh. "I never got a chance to find out."

His face breaking out in a wide grin, Clay gave her a squeeze with his arm. "You know, I like a little competition. It keeps things interesting. _If_ you can call Baird competition."

"How do you know it was Baird?" she asked, her face not telling much about her thoughts.

"Wasn't the younger two Gears you were eying. Figure it probably wasn't Dom, and when it comes to women, Cole's a lot like me. But I'm cuter." Clay gave her a charming, boyish smile.

"You know, you are cute," she informed him. "But I don't think you're half as adorable as you think you are."

Clay chuckled, his eyes glinting with mischief. He gave her another little squeeze around the waist. "Maybe so, but I'm a lot more fun than Baird. I'd give even odds we get a few drinks in us tonight and you end up in bed with me instead of him."

"I'm not going to bed with _anyone _tonight," she pointed out. "Just because I found them doesn't mean I can go back to my old life."

"And why would that be?" Clay asked, slipping quickly through the opening she'd given him, his chin still lightly perched on her shoulder. She hadn't shrugged him off yet. That seemed to be a good sign.

Charlie sighed. Up ahead was the semi, still parked along the side of the road. And a very pissed-off looking Fitz.

"It's complicated," she said, her mouth set in hard line. She didn't seem too keen on continuing the conversation. In fact, she looked like she might bite his head off if he pressed any further.

If they didn't have to get out and get back to work, he would've pressed it.


	38. Part 2: Chapter 7

_AN: Just want to say thanks to LadyChaos for pushing my to 300 reviews :) The feedback was very welcome and thanks so much for the compliments. I definitely agree Joneysbites needs more love for her stories. If any of you haven't read Snowblind, definitely give it a try. It's got a bunch of fun Baird/Cole moments :D_

_To Shadow: I'm sorry you didn't enjoy the last chapter, but was there anything you really didn't enjoy besides the lack of a reunion between Chelsea and Baird? If not, then I would (respectfully) say it may be a bit harsh to say I had a lapse in audience satisfaction with the last chapter. I had fun designing and writing the fight scene and that was the main focus of the last chapter._

* * *

Chelsea couldn't help but fidget, her trigger finger sliding over the safety on her shotgun every couple minutes, just to make sure it was off. It was warm enough to make her sweat, even though Daniel had made her leave her leather bomber jacket behind. He'd all but jerked it off her back in the parking lot of the motel, tossing it into the room he shared with his brother before they got into the Humvee to go bounty hunting.

"What're you trying to do, kid? Die of heat exhaustion?" Dan'd asked, giving her a smack across the back of the skull, although not nearly as hard as he would've slapped Clay. Dan was always getting on her for wearing 'that stupid jacket.' He had no idea she had something to hide, and whenever he gave her crap she bore it in silence, watching Clay snigger to himself in the background.

So far the evening had been painfully uneventful. After standing on hard concrete for nearly thirty minutes and her legs were killing her. Stiff after driving all day, she hurt from heels to lower back, and everything in-between. Bounty hunting had plenty of exciting moments, but also a lot of boring hurry up and wait. So often they'd scratch up a lead on where their subject might be, hurry over, and then wait around for hours to see if the subject of their warrant would show up. Either that or they'd wait for Karver to scare another location out of one of the bounty's friends.

Today, she was waiting for Clay and Daniel to search a house. They'd gone in the back and she was standing out front with Karver, watching to make sure the young man they were looking for didn't flee out the front door. She was dead tired, but this day wouldn't end any time soon. She still needed to corner Dom and talk to him without giving away her identity to the rest of her team.

When she thought of Dom and the rest of them, a thrill of fear and exhileration rose through her chest, making her heart pound. Chelsea took a slow breath, doing her best to stay calm and collected. This wasn't the time to lose focus even if her current situation was tearing her up inside. It wasn't like her to play games or pretend to be something she wasn't. After all this time, after everything that had happened, she didn't know how she felt about her old life anymore. Seeing _him_, seeing all of them, made her heart flutter with joy, relief, excitement. It also smashed her to pieces. She hadn't seen them for a year. The longest year of her life.

She'd kissed Clay that afternoon, and in spite of her better judgement, she'd liked it. She also liked her job, her new life. Driving was good, tangible work. No mind games, no prying into veterans' private lives, no busy work. She missed her mother, even though she dreaded how far she'd probably declined over the past year. She missed Baird, or at least her memories of him. But no matter how she tried to slice it, there didn't seem to be room for both her old life and new to combine and intermingle. She had some very tough choices ahead of her, but at least Clay was giving her some distance to figure things out. It was almost too much privacy after months of having the younger Carmine brother breathing down her neck.

If it hadn't been so long, if she hadn't survived so much, she probably would've run over and moment she saw Baird and jumped into his arms. Part of her still wanted that: to be Chelsea again and not be persecuted for it. But 'Charlie' had been good to her, and so had Karver. She still had some time to get this figured out, and work had to come first.

"You in there, Chuck?" Karver asked, his dark blue eyes constantly darting around, constantly alert like a true former Gear. Over the past month or so Clay's nickname for her had caught on with the other guys and Tina, but she hadn't realized she was on nickname terms with Karver.

Chelsea gave herself a shake. "Yeah," she said, keeping it short and sweet. No use talking more than necessary. Work did need to come first, and not just because she owed it to her boss. She needed to pay attention, keep her ass out of trouble.

After their crew had arrived in town that afternoon, it had mostly been business as usual. Clay went over to make plans with Delta to get together at the bar that evening, leaving Daniel to ride shotgun in the semi and help Chelsea navigate to the drop-off where they would unload their truck and collect pay for the run.

Karver had been waiting for them in the parking lot where they made their drop-off with Fitz already chewing his ear off about their little rescue operation. Chelsea didn't hear the conversation between Fitz and their boss, but she'd watched much of it in her side mirror while a bunch of COG privates working as box boys unloaded the trailer. Basically, Fitz had done a lot of very animated talking, practically foaming at the mouth while he waved his arms around, and Karver had listened unenthusiastically, leaning back against the Humvee with both arms crossed over his chest. Karver didn't say much to Fitz, and when he came over to talk to 'Charlie' and Dan in the semi, he didn't mention anything. He'd just informed them a bondsman buddy of his had a guy he wanted picked up that afternoon.

"Clay told those Delta boys we'd meet them at the bars tonight," Dan had told Karver.

Karver'd put his hands up and shrugged. "So we'll pick the guy up fast. If it takes more than a few hours I'm not bothering with it. We're rolling out in the morning." Secure in his role as their boss, Karver knew it was important to give them down time. Considering he could be a real task master on the road, when they got in for the night he typically backed off and did his best to avoid hijacking their evening plans.

Thirty minutes later they'd checked into a motel, parked the truck, and the four of them (Dan, Clay, Karver and Chelsea) piled into the Humvee with Fitz conspicuously absent. The bondsman had provided directions to where they'd likely find their wanted man, and it hadn't been too hard to find. That led them to be standing here, waiting on the Carmine brothers.

When the waiting started to get to him, Karver lit up. He always smoked when he had nothing better to do with his hands. The cloud of smoke hung in the hot, humid air. Chelsea found the smell distasteful, but 'Charlie' wouldn't give a rat's ass about a little smoke and right now she was supposed to be Charlie. It wasn't always easy to stay in character lately. The more time she spent half-way between with Clay, not quite in her old identity but close enough, the harder it became to maintain the carefully constructed male persona she'd built to protect herself.

Clayton Carmine was predatory, but not like any predator Chelsea had ever seen before. He was the sort of predator who smiled at a girl a lot, flexing all those glorious muscles, and yet, made his intentions plain. He was like a watchful cat, if a cat could wear a wide, toothy grin. Inviting, but always ready to pounce.

Chelsea often wondered why Tina didn't fall all over herself trying to attract Clay's attention. The girl sure as hell wouldn't leave Chelsea alone.

"You a loyal sort of guy, Charlie?" Karver asked, his rough voice bringing her back into the moment. "That why you decided to go after those soldiers today?"

Chelsea shrugged, wondering where this conversation might be going - and if she should be worried. "I know Delta by reputation. They always went after survivors. I know they would've come after me."

They probably had tried to find her. Chelsea had barely escaped the city with her life after the MPs pulled her out of Baird's truck. The same way she hadn't known how to get in contact with them after she left without endangering herself, they couldn't have known where to start looking for her. She'd had no choice but to constantly keep moving, especially in those first few months. It probably should've occurred to her that she might get separated from them and need to let them know she was okay, or her whereabouts, or anything. Foolishly, they'd had no plan, no place to meet outside the city. She didn't even know their address. Even if she had, mail wasn't very reliable, or private. What if she got them in trouble for harboring her?

Spending a lot of time on the road left a lot of room to think, and Chelsea had gone back over it a thousand times in her mind. Why didn't they make a plan? Why did she allow herself to be caught unprepared?

The answer was simple. After everything she'd been through, after all the sacrifices her family had made, Chelsea never thought the COG would really force her to become a fugitive. So what if she'd lived with three guys she wasn't related to? She wasn't an old maid. She had plenty of time to find a guy and start a family. If they'd given her a few more months she might've done just that with Baird, assuming they'd gotten along and he'd been willing. After the service she'd rendered, the loss of her father and three brothers, and the discharge without warning, the COG owed her a little patience.

Instead, they forced her out. They left her to become a real criminal. A thief, a murderer. Chelsea never thought she'd go from serving in a COG emergency room to hiding in muddy ditches like an animal. Dirty, starving and often sick from unclean water. Stealing from heavily armed farmers and all the while doing her best to make some sort of plan to salvage her life when she needed every ounce of energy and cunning to stay alive.

After some of the things she'd done this past year, it might be difficult even for Dom to accept her back into his circle of friends. None of them had a high opinion of Stranded, and Chelsea felt she'd become something worse. She never let her shotgun out of her sight even though it reminded her how many times she'd cleaned blood off the stock and barrel.

Karver let his cigarette drop, crushing it under his boot. "You know, until today I thought I had a real problem," the former Gear told her. "I thought someday Fitz and Dan would kill each other, and I'd be out my two best men. I kept on thinking eventually I'd have to get rid of one, or promote one to my second. Either way, one of them would be gone. My business man, or my get 'er done man. Then I figured something out. I've got about a ton of beefcake on this team, and the pencil-necked kid driving my rig is the one calling the shots when the heat's on."

The praise took her by surprise. All this time Chelsea thought she'd been moving under the radar. Karver's role on the team was mostly administrative and coordination these days. It was easy to believe he didn't really pay much attention to what went on between his employees as long as the work got done.

"I'm no leader. Fitz wouldn't ever follow me," Chelsea said, sinking deep in the 'Charlie' facade. Charlie would look down at his boots and scuff the sidewalk during a conversation like this. Charlie wouldn't make eye contact with Karver while being questioned about whether or not he thought he could actually become a leader on a team like this one. Charlie was several years younger than Chelsea and very unsure of where he stood in the pecking order among so many males of superior strength.

Karver let out a deep belly laugh, rough from years of smoking. "Fitz? Fitz is a coward. You don't lead him, you manage him. Today you managed him, and it's got him steamed. Why do you think he wouldn't come out hunting tonight? He's sulking because he got his ass kicked. By a _kid._"

_By a girl._ If Fitz ever found out about her, he'd flip out. She instinctively knew that.

The radio on Karver's belt crackled to life. "We've searched the house top to bottom and we haven't found him yet," Dan reported back. "You guys seen anything out front?"

Just then, a window on the upper level slid open, and a skinny young man slipped out onto the sagging roof.

Karver jerked the handset off his belt. "We've got him out front. He's on the roof, trying to make a run for it."

The sagging roof began to collapse underneath the man they'd come to arrest, the rotton shingles sliding out from beneath his feet. He tried to make a leap for it, making it to the small overhang shading the porch from the setting sun, but the overhang gave and he crashed down onto the wood-plank porch in a pile of rubble.

Weapon ready, Karver went forward, calling out to the man to surrender. Chelsea flanked him, her shotgun ready, the stock pulled tight into her shoulder. She was loaded with twelve guage double ought buck, and it kicked hard. As they approached, the kid started flinging aside the rubble trapping him more frantically. He really was just a kid. Mid-teens at most. Fear made his blue eyes wild, and even though Karver threatened to shoot, when the boy got free he took off running like the devil was chasing after him.

Karver raised his Lancer, took aim at the boy's backside. If they brought in the boy injured they'd only get half the bounty. Dead, and they'd only get a quarter. But Chelsea had a feeling money wasn't the only thing that stayed Karver's trigger finger.

"Shit," he said, lowering his weapon and taking off running after the boy, his armored boots beating heavily on the broken concrete of the sidewalk.

Chelsea didn't particularly want to follow, but Charlie would. Charlie would chomp at the bit to chase the kid down and hog tie him. Charlie would be thinking about going to the bar later that night and having all the other guys on the crew smack him on the back and congratulate him and buy him drinks until the room started to spin. Charlie would imagine girls noticing what a fuss a couple of strapping guys like Clay and Dan Carmine were making over him, and then those girls would wonder if maybe he was someone worth getting close to for the night.

She kept her pace steady, jogging instead of sprinting, and held onto the strap attached to her shotgun with one hand so it wouldn't beat against her back. The boy had taken off like a spooked horse. He was scared, running hard and probably on the verge of hyperventalating. Even though the sun was quickly going down, the heat of the day had yet to dissipate. He wouldn't get far before he started to flag, his adrenaline draining away. For the first time, Chelsea was glad for Clay and Daniel's fitness-freak ways. When she first joined the team, she'd worked out with them to get away from Tina, but later continued to do so because it kept her fit, kept her physique from regaining its natural curves when she had access to proper nutrition once again.

Plus it was a lot of fun watching Dan whip Clay's ass when they all ran together every morning.

When the kid started to get tired, hardly able to keep his legs pumping while making his way through the crowded city streets, Chelsea still trotted along after him, hardly winded. She'd lost Karver blocks ago. He hadn't stood much of a chance in his heavy armor. The heat caught up with him, and so did his smoking habit. She'd caught a glimpse of him over her shoulder when he finally gave in, hands on his knees and coughs racking his whole body.

Pulling the radio from the belt on her cargos, Chelsea depressed the button on the side and spoke into it. "He's making his way downtown, toward the restaurant district. I can still see him."

"What street?" Clay asked, and she could hear the excitement in his voice. The hunt was on, and the boys loved giving chase.

Chelsea looked around. Of course, there were no street signs visible. The city was bustling, but that was a nitty-gritty level of maintenance they weren't up to quite yet.

"I don't know. He's going west, toward the bars."

Immediately after she said that, the kid turned a sharp corner, running down an alley to the south.

"Shit," Chelsea hissed, putting the radio back on her belt and finally turning on the after-burners. She wasn't going to lose him now. She'd run every morning for months. Every stride she took was powerful, and even though her legs churned hard they felt strong. She wouldn't wear out before he did.

_Keep running, asshole. You'll just go to jail tired._

Chelsea turned into the alley, narrowly missing a man in a bloody butcher's apron with a crate in his arms walking out of the alley. She regained line of sight with her target. He was almost done, and she cut into his lead quickly, chased him down the alley two more blocks, and just when she thought he might stop, he charged down another crossing alleyway, this one even narrower than the first, making for a group of three tall women standing around smoking outside the back door of a club with music cranked up so loud it could be heard outside the establishment, humming and thumping. The three women were clad in little more than their underwear, enjoying cigarettes in the settling twilight.

The kid darted inside, and Chelsea charged ahead after him. The door led into the dimly lit dressing room in the back of a strip club. Approximately ten young women, many of them nearly naked, were putting on make-up and costumes, getting ready to showcase their assets on stage. Only a few of them glanced up for a moment when a convicted criminal and pursing bounty hunter ran past. The rest didn't even pause from their chatter and preparations. Chelsea would bet if any of them were questioned by MPs about this incident, they'd swear they hadn't seen anything.

"Stop!" Chelsea ordered, chasing the kid through the dressing room and into a back store room packed with cases of alcohol and beer. The dull thumping music was louder here, and it swallowed her words like she'd never said them.

There were two doors leaving the store room. One opened up behind the bar and was currently filled by a bar tender on his way back with tall stacks of dirty glasses, the other door was up a short wooden staircase.

Chelsea was right on the kid's ass when he went up the stairs, and for the first time she realized he was quite a bit bigger than her. Taller, if not heavier. He pushed open the door at the top of the wooden stairs, flung open a velvety curtain on the other side, and ran out onto a stage in front of a bar packed full of patrons with a very beautiful young woman hanging six feet off the ground on a pole and another young woman working the crowd close to the stage. Both women were all but naked.

The kid paused, a little taken aback by his circumstances, and Chelsea took the opportunity to tackle him, causing both of them to slide to the edge of the stage in a pile of flailing arms and legs.

Chelsea caught an elbow in the eye, and her vision exploded in reds and greens. Temporarily blinded, she fought to keep control of the young man, seeking an arm bar or to get on his back and choke him out, but then all of a sudden everything stopped. The kid stopped struggling, the music cut out, and the entire bar went dead silent.

For the first time, Chelsea realized exactly where she was. Clinging tight to the young man, they'd slid together to the very edge of the stage, directly between the straddled legs of a stripper working the crowd for tips. Four inches from Chelsea's ear was a very tall stiletto heel, and another stiletto was poised on the other side of the kid she'd tackled. Chelsea very pointedly didn't look up. She had a pretty good idea what she'd see if she did.

As it turned out, being in a rather compromising position with a stripper was the least of her concerns. Seated in the front row just a few feet away were four stunned Gears, each with a drink in hand except for one. One of them had a pistol pointed straight at her and the kid.

Putting her hands up in surrender, Chelsea gave a feeble wave. "Hey, guys," she said, not quite forcing her voice low enough to pass for Charlie.

"Holy shit," Baird said, one arm around a scantily clad stripper seated sideways on his lap. Judging by the slightly glassy look to his eyes, he'd had a few drinks. Cole sat to his left, on and his right were two privates: the big Islander MP who'd pulled Chelsea from Damon's truck a year ago-he held the pistol-and another soldier she didn't recognize who must've been the fifth traveling with them.

Cole blinked hard a few times. "Holy shit," he repeated, nudging Baird with his elbow. "Hey, that's..."

"I _know _who it is," Baird cut him off, voice cold.

"...Shrink Lady," Cole finished, but now he was studying his friend, looking back and forth between him and Chelsea. If Baird was drunk, Cole was probably also drunk. It was hard to tell if he was putting two and two together, or just trying to figure out what was going on.

The stripper tripped over Chelsea and the kid when she tried to climb over them, and for a moment they were an odd pile of flailing limbs; bounty hunter, bounty and all-but-naked woman. Then the bouncers got hold of them. Chelsea felt someone grab her from behind, dragging her roughly backwards off the stage and violently ripping the shotgun off her back, breaking the cord connecting the strap to the weapon and leaving a strap-shaped bruise across her sternum.

"Get them out of here! Turn them in to the MPs!" the club manager shouted.

Chelsea was cuffed across the back of the head with her own weapon. Black spots explode across her vision. She almost fell, scrambling to find some steadying surface with her hands. Someone had spilled their drink on the floor, leaving behind a wet puddle with a number of ice cubes laying inside it. At the same time the bouncer pushed her, Chelsea's boots hit the puddle and she went down, gasping when she landed on her extended arm and feeling a pop in her wrist. The bouncer threw the shotgun back up onto the stage and grabbed her uninjured arm with both hands, hauling her back onto her feet. When she was upright, he twisted her arm up behind her back until she cried out, feeling tendons straining to hold her shoulder in its socket.

Then someone caught the bouncer by the collar, hauling him off of her. Chelsea turned her head just in time to see Baird throw every ounce of strength he could muster into a left cross. With a grunt of effort, his entire body weighed in on the devastating blow. Baird's fist clipped the bouncer's jaw, knocking his head back hard enough to inflict whiplash.

Chelsea watched Cole and the other two Gears rise from their seats, pushing aside strippers who'd been entertaining them, getting ready for the shit storm sure to come when the remaining bar enforcers descended on Baird. They were an intimidating looking crew.

Baird turned to her for just a moment, his jaw clenched and his green eyes wild. "You're damn lucky I don't hit girls," he growled, blunt as ever.

Even as he said it, two more bouncers made their way through the crowd, quickly closing on them. Meanwhile, Chelsea's bounty saw an opportunity to give the man gripping him the slip.

Jerking the radio off her belt, Chelsea charged into the crowd, going after the kid. "Clay, we're in the strip bar. Come ready, there's gonna be a fight."

Jamming the radio back onto her belt without waiting for a response, she slid between bystanders, trying to get to the edge of the crowd. As people outside started to hear the commotion, they started to come inside the bar, pressing toward the fight brewing by the stage. These days a simple bar fight could easily escalate into a riot. The remaining populous of Sera consisted of a bunch of underworked fighters with a low standard of living and no one to punch in the face for it.

"Eh, lady? Where you going?" the big Islander MP called after her, following her through the crowd.

"Stop following me!" she shouted over her shoulder, catching up with the kid and grabbing him. She pushed him up against the bar and slipped cuffs on him with expert precision borne from months of practice.

"Can't do that. If you disappear again, that crazy blond asshole will probably kill me," the Islander informed her, catching up and standing next to her, placing a helping hand on the kid's shoulder while she cuffed him so he wouldn't get any ideas. Before she met Clay, she would've considered the former MP huge, almost on par with Cole's massive bulk.

"Who, Baird?" Chelsea asked, which seemed like a silly question, but that didn't make her feel any less bewildered. Baird seemed pretty pissed at her at the moment.

"He's the only crazy blond asshole assigned to our mission, ma'am," the former MP confirmed, completely deadpan.

That was true enough. "Quit struggling!" Chelsea ordered her victim, pushing him toward the door. "We already know I can outrun you when your hands are free."

By now Karver and the Carmine brothers should've caught up with her. Chelsea figured she could let them secure the bounty, leaving her free to go back into the bar and help Baird and Cole. Except, nothing went to plan. Instead of finding Clay or Dan or Erek outside the club, she found a fully-armed squad of MPs responding to the fight in progress.

"Hey, you," one of them called to her. "You the one who called us?"

"Arrest her!" one of the bar employees called out from the door, pointing directly at Chelsea. "She started it! Arrest her! Arrest both of them!"

The MPs trained rifles on her, the kid she'd arrested and the former MP standing beside her. Chelsea let go of the kid and raised her hands above her head as instructed.

Beside her, the Islander 'former' MP swore, also raising his hands over his head. "Shit, lady. Your boyfriend's gonna kill me."

"He's not my boyfriend," Chelsea admitted with an exhausted sigh. After all this time, this was how it ended? She got snagged by accident outside a strip club?

Sure. Why not.

* * *

It wasn't the first time Cole had waded into a fight after Baird. In fact, that's how they'd met. A bunch of privates got into a fight in the bathroom, and Blondie got the short end if it until Cole intervened. Baird had a short fuse, but he'd mellowed a lot over the years. With age and experience, confidence and wisdom, he'd eventually learned six-on-one odds didn't bode well in his favor.

But give the guy a little hard liquor and he'd throw down with just about anyone, and that seemed to be his plan tonight. He'd already had words with Dom and Marcus before they headed out for the evening, getting into it with them over stupid, petty shit. Shit Baird usually didn't care about, like what time they'd head out in the morning to the job site. Then, on the way over the club, he'd torn Solice a new one for slamming the door of Baird's precious pickup, which Marcus had graciously brought along.

Cole figured it was because the man had a lot on his mind. Baird didn't talk much about the rape charges pending against him, or the ensuing paternity suit, but it had to be wearing on him. His skin was so thin today it was damn near transparent.

Now the man was trying to take on six bouncers by himself. Not the best way to start an evening in Cole's opinion.

"You better go after Shrink-Lady," Cole said to Solice. He no more than said the word and Solice disappeared into the crowd after Chelsea, who'd bounded off like someone lit a fire under her ass.

"Now what?" Wixler asked, watching the near-comedy of Baird's attempts to fight off six grown men in a crowded area. So far he was doing well, forcing them all to pile up behind each other trying to get at him so he never had to deal with more than one or two at a time. "Are we going to help him?"

Cole interlaced his fingers and pressed them outward, cracking all his knuckles. "Yep," he acknowledged. In his younger years, he would've dove straight in. These days he took a moment to lament not being able to warm up and stretch before a fight. At his age, he was likely to pull a muscle or tear a ligament or otherwise hurt himself.

He wasn't too worried about others hurting him.

Baird hopped up on stage where two strippers were huddling together next to the pole, trying to stay out of the fray. A bouncer grabbed his boot, tripping him, and tried to drag him off the stage. Baird kicked at the man, scooting backward on his butt.

"Cole! I could use some help!" Baird shouted, and his voice pitched higher than normal, just starting to smack of desperate. There were three men trying to pull Baird down off the stage now, and they looked like they'd love to pound the shit out of him.

Just like in Thrashball, Cole found he could sometimes do more damage by doing less. He walked up to the jumping, grabbing thrall of bouncers, and gave the pile a big push. It was not unlike pushing over a pile of defenders attempting to strip a ball carrier. The mass tangled, and the shove sent most of them sprawling on the floor, leaving just two in the back left standing.

Baird scrambled to his feet and looked around for an exit. The way off stage was blocked by the bartender, and the thick crowd blocked the other side of the stage. Reaching out, Damon grabbed one of the strippers and pulled her toward him.

"Catch," he shouted at the two remaining bouncers, tossing the stripper off the stage in her heels and forcing the two to occupy themselves with catching her. The girl shrieked loud enough to wake the dead, and continued to scream as Baird hopped off the stage, took two long strides and then launched himself up onto the bar.

Cole just shook his head while watching his friend sprint down the length of the bar, sending beer mugs and bowls full of peanuts flying. In his Thrashball days, Cole had hung out with a lot of interesting people, including celebrities, athletes and kids who were so rich they were famous for it. He used to think he'd known some serious partiers, but none of those people had brought anywhere near as much 'entertainment' to his life as Damon Baird.

* * *

"Hey, hey! Stop him!" the club manager shouted, trying to race through the crowd along with two of his goons. They were trying to cut him off before he got out the door and onto the street. Baird couldn't really blame them. Wouldn't he want to beat the piss out of some dick who cold-cocked one of his buddies? They had no idea their buddy had been beating on a woman.

A woman who should've been dead.

Running down a bar was harder than it looked. If he took one wrong step, he'd wipe out on a plate of wings or trip over a napkin holder, and that would majorly suck. The fall from this height would likely break bones, at the very least. The rush of adrenaline from the fight had sobered him up some, but he still remained just a bit detached from his motor skills. Like he floated above it all and didn't quite participate. Up ahead, he could see the end of the bar. It was a four and a half foot drop, so he'd hit the ground off balance unless he timed it perfectly, and he still had three steps to the door.

The bar employees were gaining on him, even through the onlookers pushing forward. If he made it, it would only be by an extremely narrow margin. The barest remains of evening light remained outside, but it beckoned him through the open door.

Cheers erupted from the crowd when he hit the floor perfectly, hardly missing a beat. He felt a hand grab the back of his t-shirt, but he kept going, tearing away from the grip but still able to feel three large men breathing down the back of his neck.

"Clay, help him!" he heard Chelsea shout.

Another step and he cleared the door. The second he passed through, a huge arm came across the frame, grabbing the jamb and clotheslining the three men chasing him.

Outside, Baird turned around, finding Clay Carmine, dressed in full plate, had rescued him for the second time in 24 hours. With two bouncers and the bar manager stacked up on his arm, Clay put on his brightest wolf-in-sheep's-clothing smile. The one that didn't extend to his predator eyes. He had absolutely no trouble holding them back, and any of those burly guys would've given Baird a run for his money in a fair fight.

"Don't worry, guys. I know you just want my buddy to get home safe, considering he's had a little too much to drink, but I'll make sure he gets there." Coming from Clay, the words held a challenge. Something along the lines of, 'Let me take his drunk ass home or I'll thump your brains out.'

During one of his stints as a sergeant, Baird was assigned a squad with Clay Carmine in it. The guy liked to fight, and he was capable of incredible brutality. There were rumors Clay had gotten caught with another Gear's girlfriend at the Rusty Nail back in Jacinto. The jealous boyfriend started throwing punches, but Clay finished it, breaking the other man's arms, cracking his skull and kicking in his ribs. On top of all that, rumor was Carmine still slept with the girl that night, completely remorseless.

Having a guy like Clay Carmine for a private was one of the experiences that made Baird swear off being a sergeant. Even before E-Day, the COG didn't pay enough to make putting up with that sort of crap worthwhile. He was always getting rolled out of his cot at odd hours to bail out Clay. At the time Baird had been seeing a girl named Elise from the kitchen staff semi-regularly. At least, he did until she met Carmine and dumped him for the over-sized meathead.

After that, Baird had Clay transferred to Delta so Fenix could deal with him. Baird figured if Clay could steal Anya, all the more power to him.

"Damon!"

Baird turned, finally taking in his surroundings. Clay had his dark-featured brother by his side, along with their boss, a taller guy with long blond hair. They were all suited up in COG armor, but none had any insignia. They were trying to talk down the bar manager, keep him from pressing charges against Chelsea, or Baird.

A patrolling squad of MPs had crashed the party, and they were currently in possession of the young man Chelsea had chased into the bar. They were also in possession of Chelsea, searching her person while forcing her to keep her hands clasped behind her head even as Solice pleaded with them to wait for Fenix and Santiago to arrive.

"Come on, brah. I used to be an MP. This isn't what it looks like. Just wait for my sergeant to get here. He knows her."

"Then where's her ID?" one of the MPs argued back. "Without identification or a bounty hunting cert, I can't have a private citizen arresting people or trespassing on private property in the pursuit of a fugitive."

"Her boss has a certification. He_ told_ you that," Solice argued, pointing toward the large blond man with long hair. What was his name? Karver?

"Every employee who engages in bounty hunting must have their own cert."

Solice looked like he wanted to jack the guy in the face. His fists clenched at his sides. "Eh, you think I don't know how this works? If she was a dude, you'd drop it. This kind of shit is why I got a transfer. Don't see you arresting me, and I was standing right next to her."

"You aren't a civilian," the MP paused to look down at Solice's military ID. "Private Solice. But if you'd like a drunk and disorderly charge on your record, I'm sure we could accommodate you."

Solice put out his hands, wrists together, inviting the MP to slap on the cuffs. "Do it, asshole, I dare you!"

Lips pursed in a sneer, the MP took a set of handcuffs off his belt. "Fine. Your sergeant's going to have your ass, boy."

"Eh, _my sergeant_ ain't no twenty-two year old gets a hard on from dropping privates just because he can. He's Dom Santigo and he'll fuck you up, brah."

Chelsea should've been arguing her case, but she only had eyes for him. "Damon, I'm sorry!" she called. "I'm sorry I didn't get back to you."

Baird opened his mouth, about to let fly with some scathing comment, but then he paused. Outside under natural light, he could finally see what the past year had done to her. She was thin. Most people stayed thin on rations, but her cheeks had gone hollow and the butt he'd once admired was gone. Her cargo pants were barely held on by a belt slung low around her hips. Her clothes were dirty and over-worn, her hair ragged underneath the bandanna, which the MPs had removed while searching her. She had faded white scars on her wrists, the kind of scars people got from being restrained by rope ties.

Heaving a sigh, Baird made his way over to her just as Clay Carmine made his way over from the ongoing negotiation with the bar manager. Stopping exactly a yard away from her, Baird nodded to the large shadow in his peripheral.

"You sleeping with him?" Baird asked. He was prepared to walk away and forget her if she said yes.

Before Chelsea could answer, Clay interjected. "Man, I've been trying to hit that for months. Never had a girl hold out on me so long."

"Why the hell should I believe you?" Baird asked, throwing all the snarky venom he could muster into the words.

Clay just smirked. Still the same smug asshole. "Because you know I don't give a shit about your feelings. If your girl wants me more than you, I'm probably doing you a favor."

"So that's how it works? You were doing me a 'favor' back on Vectes?"

"What, with that kitchen girl? The one who smelled like bacon? I told you then, I didn't know she had a boyfriend. Trust me, man, I did you a favor."

The darker featured Carmine brother came over to join them, and he leaned in momentarily in passing. What was his name? Daniel? "Usually I don't defend Clayton, but if you're talking about the bacon girl, then he really did do you a favor, man. That girl stalked Clay for months."

"That may be true," Baird admitted, eyes narrowed with skepticism. "But it's the principle of the thing."

Chelsea watched their back-and-forth with tired eyes. When the MP finished searching her, he pulled her arms down from her head one at a time, cuffing her wrists behind her back. She appeared stoic, but when Baird looked closely, he saw the slight tremble of fear she couldn't quite suppress. She must think he was so stupid, hashing over an old slight from half a decade ago. Something that didn't even matter anymore. Sometimes he let these little things dig in under his skin at inappropriate times.

"Hey, give me a minute to say good-bye, all right?" Baird told the MP about to lead her away.

The MP held up a finger. "You have one minute. Don't push me." Then he let her go.

Even restrained, she slipped into his arms like she belonged there, pressing her face against his shoulder and leaning into him. She took a long, shuddering breath.

"I feel light-headed," she admitted, the words muffled against his shirt.

In the background, Clay tried to talk down the MPs. The bar manager had dropped all charges, but they wouldn't budge on taking her into custody. They were even taking Solice into custody.

Running his hands up and down her arms to promote circulation, Baird pulled her tighter into his chest. "That's the panic. Just breathe, nice and slow. We aren't going to let you rot in jail, so there's no point in fainting and making a big dramatic scene."

That at least got a smile out of her. "Making a scene? Like you did in the bar just now?"

"I've got news for you. There's only room for one drama queen in this relationship, and it's probably going to be me."

She nodded, swallowing hard like she had a lump in her throat. "I remember. I missed you," she said, and the haunted way she said it gave him some understanding of just how much she meant it. "Don't make a scene out here, okay? I don't want anyone to get hurt."

He didn't remind her that if he was going to start something, he would've already. The last time this happened he tried to fight and he ended up losing her. Even with his arms around her, Baird could tell she was scared shitless. The shaking didn't go away even when he wrapped her up tight.

"We'll get you out," he promised. He wasn't sure how exactly they'd get it done, but they would. Santiago and Fenix would have their own input, but if all else failed, Baird did have a plan in mind.

Everything in his life had fallen apart lately. Cole had gone off to play Thrashball. He'd gotten himself in deep shit with a female officer working on his project. The only thing he had left was work, and work wasn't enough anymore. Besides Mataki, this was probably the only woman Baird had ever met in his life who truly seemed to care for him across a significant amount of time, and he included his own mother in that count. Part of him still wanted to be angry with Chelsea, but they could sort that out later. If they couldn't sort it out, then at least they'd know it wouldn't work between them and they could go their seperate ways with closure.

"Time's up," the MP informed them.

Baird tilted her head up, pressing a kiss to her lips. She returned it whole-heartedly, rising up on her tip-toes. And then the MP gave a little jerk on her handcuffs and pulled her away from him.

"Hey, keep your head up, Chuck," Clay instructed, slapping Chelsea roughly on the back.

"Like the man said, keep your head up, kid," Daniel Carmine echoed, also giving her a slap on the back. "Don't take any shit off anybody. Just treat 'em like Fitz."

"I'm sorry I lied to you all," she said meekly as she got dragged past her co-workers. "I'm really sorry. I like working with you."

"We'll talk about that when you're out of the tank," Chelsea's boss informed her. "I'm going to head over and talk to a bondsman friend of mine, see if he can pull some strings. I still need my driver."

Chelsea nodded as if encouraged, but Baird knew there would be no bail set. Like Solice said, it was all bullshit. The COG would take in a woman on some trumped up charge and ship her off to the farms. It would take more than money to get Chelsea out of the local jail.

The MP patrol soon rounded a corner down the street, taking Chelsea and Solice with them.

When Baird turned around he found Cole standing behind him, arms crossed over his chest and failing to hide the wide shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

"What're you smiling about?" Baird grumbled in passing.

"Nothing, baby. Just looking forward to telling Mataki she might finally get those blond grandbabies she's been pining for."

"Yeah, well you two_ ladies_ can knit all the baby blankets you want _after_ we save the girl. Come on, we need to track down the wonder twins."

"You mean Fenix and Santiago?" Cole asked.

"Is that not what I said?" Baird called over his shoulder. "Come on. You're going to want to see the look on Santiago's face when we tell him one of his privates went to jail on his first day as a squad leader."

Hustling to catch up, Cole fell in beside him, the grin now firmly planted on his face. "Oh, yeah? You think it's gonna be better than the look on his face when we tell him you and Shrink Lady were up in a tree, k-i-s-s"

"Cole," Baird growled, a muscle in his cheek twitching. "I_ will_ slap you."


	39. Part 2: Chapter 8

_AN: So, I hope all of you enjoyed Gears 3. With a few exceptions *cough* I thought it was the best game so far. Not sure why the series had to be so emo at times, but whatever. Lots of unanswered questions, and hopefully those will be addressed in 'The Slab' next spring._

* * *

Saint Santiago might not lower himself to visit a gentleman's club, but given enough incentive he would endure a visit to a bar with friends, especially if he thought his going would force Marcus to spend a little social time out with Anya in which alcohol was involved. Being the genius he was, it didn't take Baird long to deduce he'd find them in a bar or diner—somewhere with drinks and food, since Santiago wouldn't be indulging. Alcohol wouldn't mix with his PTSD medications. Since there wasn't much in the way of street parking for a Humvee, it would have to be an establishment very close to the motel to accommodate Anya's gimpiness.

With his search parameters set, Baird narrowed their options down to one or two establishments and sure enough, they found Santiago and Anya in a bar near the motel where they'd all gotten rooms for the night. The two were seated at a table in the back. All the other chairs at the table were pushed in, but there were three beverages resting on the tabletop. One mug of beer remained untouched with the frost fading off the glass, so they must've been waiting a while for Fenix to join them.

Baird paused at the door, placing a hand on Cole's massive shoulder before the Thrashballer could shout a greeting and wave at their counterparts.

"You two follow my lead on this, all right?" Baird said, addressing both Cole and the private, Wixler. "I don't want Santiago to know Chelsea had a thing for me before she disappeared. Not yet."

Cole exchanged a knowing look with Wixler. The kid apparently was catching on quickly to squad dynamics. Enough to get the meaning in that look.

"Uh, she had a thing for _you, _huh?" Cole asked, mockingly doubtful.

Wixler crossed his arms over his chest, one corner of his mouth ticking up. "I might need an instant replay, but I'm pretty sure you kissed her, man. Not that she seemed to mind..."

"Hey, you want to learn how to manipulate your sergeant?" Baird hissed, stepping closer to his two compatriots so he'd be less likely to be overheard. "I'm going to get exactly what I want, and Santiago's going to think it's his idea. Watch and learn."

Baird turned and started walking over to the table where Santiago sat. Behind him, he heard Wixler question Cole, "Do you really think he can manipulate Sarge? I've had some dumb sergeants, but Santiago doesn't seem like a slouch."

Cole let out a deep chuckle. "When you're a perpetual corporal with a really big brain you learn a few tricks to get what you want. But these two got history, so it should be interesting to watch."

Closing the distance to the table, Baird didn't waste any time on pleasantries, which was a little bit of a relief because he wasn't really one for happy greetings. He preferred to get straight into the meat of a situation. All the fringe crap bored him.

He walked right up to the table, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, "Hey, Dom. Guess who I just ran into at the strip club."

"It must not've been Clay Carmine, because the last time you ran into his right hook back on Vectes me and Cole spent half an hour mopping you up off the floor."

Behind him, Cole snorted a laugh at the memory, but quickly suppressed his snickering. Baird just twitched. "Yeah, I really don't remember much of that particular evening," he hedged, faking a cough. "Anyway. Like I was saying before, we ran into a very alive Chelsea Ferria."

_And...queue Dom's dramatic reaction..._

"Chelsea's _alive_?" Dom asked, rising from his chair without seeming to notice. For a moment he looked a little lost, which didn't surprise Baird much. Dom wasn't a lucky guy. Usually when things happened to people he cared about, they were very bad things. "Where is she?" Then, Dom got a bewildered look on his face. "Wait a minute. Are you saying Chelsea's working at the strip club here?"

_In my wet dreams. _"No," Baird said. "She's working for Carmine's crew as a truck driver. If she was a stripper, don't you think I would've dragged you and Fenix over there just to see you both drop dead from the shock of the impropriety?" he asked.

Dom's dark eyes narrowed in annoyance. Either he didn't appreciate getting jerked around, or he didn't understand the meaning of 'impropriety.' Probably both, Baird decided.

"Where is she?" Anya asked, perhaps surprising all of them.

"Don't worry about it, you don't know her," Baird said, brushing her off. Something about seeing Anya in person had always bothered him. On the radio she was a wealth of information, a powerful resource. Maybe it was the unnaturally perfect hair, or the makeup. Even when things hit the shit, the woman never looked bad.

It was positively sickening.

"Her father went to the academy with my mother," Anya pressed. "They were friends and colleagues until my mother died. I haven't seen her since she was a toddler, but I do know Chelsea Ferria. Where is she? Is she all right?" she asked, very adamant about wanting to know.

_Why would she care so much? _Baird couldn't calculate a reasonable answer at the moment, and decided to think on it more later.

"She's in jail for bounty hunting without a cert. It's a bullshit charge, but they seem determined to make it stick," Baird continued, really getting rolling on his explanation. He'd have to carry through his part as naturally as possible. "We should probably find Fenix, considering it's his name on the Conception Order. He's probably the only one who could spring her."

If looks could kill, Dom's eyes would've shot lasers straight through him. How dare he be so insensitive to Anya's feelings? Because he had an agenda, to be perfectly honest.

"Marcus isn't going to go for that, Baird."

"I wouldn't go for what?"

Baird executed an about-face and found Fenix standing just behind Cole and Wixler. "Oh good. You're here. Now we can move this conversation somewhere more private."

"Can it wait until I drink my beer?" Marcus asked, motioning to the mug on the table.

"Sure it can," Baird said. "If you want Carmine and his asshole brother to get antsy and start inquiring into procuring ordinance to blow a hole in the side of the town's jail. If that's cool then by all means, take all the time in the world to drink your beer."

"Fine," Marcus growled, ever his sunny self. He stalked over to the table and picked up the mug. "But I'm taking it with me."

"I've got news," Baird said when they were outside and several blocks down the street, standing in front of a closed super-market. They'd walked slowly so Anya could keep up. Baird had heard rumors of what had happened to the Lieutenant. From what he'd heard, her ship had been taken briefly in a pirate raid and she'd very nearly been the only casualty.

"I've got news, too. But I can't talk over you, so you go first," Marcus relented, leaning against the brick facade and sipping his beer. He was in one of his bitchy moods. The bouncer standing at the door of the bar had started to say something when Marcus walked with his drink, but one stern look from the former sergeant made the much smaller man all but grab his nuts and run for the hills.

"Chelsea's alive, Marcus. She got arrested tonight," Dom said. He stood just at Baird's elbow.

Huffing a sigh, Baird rolled his eyes toward the faint stars above. "Seriously? You're going to take away my big reveal? Yes, Chelsea is alive. And in jail. I think _you _can get her out."

"Me?" Marcus asked, skeptical. He was good at playing dumb. It took Baird a long time figure that out. "How am I going to get her out?"

"You're listed on the Conception Order. If you register a union with her, she'll be released into your custody and a judge will probably drop all charges against her, including Wes Kendall's assault charge."

Suddenly the air around them got very still, and very tense. There was a hundred ton elephant in the room, and it had parked its fat butt right in the middle of their circle. They probably all thought he was oblivious, but Baird was aware of Anya standing off to the side, out of sight, but not out of mind. He noticed she hadn't said a single word since he'd dropped the bomb about Marcus's conception order. It might not seem like it to an outsider, but Baird had seen evidence over the years that Marcus did a hell of a lot more thinking about Anya than he let on. For a full minute, no one made a sound. Not even Cole scuffed his boot or cleared his throat, and Baird knew exactly how much Cole hated tense silences, especially among their oddball little family. The man liked his noise.

"If I register a union with her, the COG will expect us to produce three kids over the next five to eight years," Marcus said, the words slow and pointed. It was like the subject pissed him off.

Maybe it did.

"Is that a problem?" Baird pressed. He'd been pretty sure Fenix would refuse, but he didn't expect the violent outburst that came next.

"Yes, it's a fucking problem!" Fenix shouted, getting right in Baird's face. "I will _never_ have children. Not now, not ever!"

Baird just stood there and took it. He'd had people scream in his face all his life, although the rough voice made Fenix a bit more intimidating than most. Obviously he'd touched a nerve, because Fenix rarely let his temper off the leash like that. He'd figured Fenix would refuse because of Anya, but perhaps he'd underestimated how much Marcus feared his family's legacy.

Unless it was something else. Maybe this was a show he'd put on for Anya's benefit, to prove he'd stay loyal without admitting it? Why the fuck did the man have to be so damn complicated? At least he was predictable some of the time, even if it was for different reasons than anticipated.

"Good for you," Baird said when Marcus finished. "I'm just _thrilled_ you've discovered your feminine rights, I really am. It's _your _body, and so on and so forth. Except Chelsea_ doesn't_ have a choice. She's in this situation because you guys thought you were above the system. You have to work _with _the system to beat it."

"Hold on," Dom said. "Maybe there is another way around this. Wixler, remember what you were telling me today about you and your wife? You two got a Conception Order. They gave you a year to get things together, but what would've happened if you two had refused to have children after that year?"

The young man shrugged. He'd looked a little out of his depth when Fenix exploded, but this obviously fell inside his ballpark. "She'd get sent off to the farms and because I'm in the COG they'd make my life miserable. I'd be on probation for five years, given shit details, dropped a pay grade. If I was a civilian they wouldn't be able to do much to me."

Dom nodded, the rodent running fast on its wheel between his ears. "All right. So a civilian could register a union with Chelsea and at least buy her some time and things wouldn't be any worse than they are now. A whole year to get things figured out. It doesn't have to be Marcus."

_And that leaves..._

"What about Clay, or his brother?" Dom asked. "She's part of their team. It's not like skilled truck drivers are dropping out of the sky these days."

Baird's green eyes narrowed. He really wanted to punch Santiago in the face. He'd led the damn horse to a lake and it still wouldn't drink.

Cole half-way raised his hand, like he was asking permission to talk. "Uh, hate to pop the bubble, but the Carmines don't exactly have a mailing address. If any of them registers a union, the PCD is gonna want one of those so they can keep an eye on things."

"True," Dom said, brow furrowed. "Then who else is there?"

Cole shrugged one massive shoulder. "How about Baird?" he asked. "He's an independent contractor."

_And it's the Cole Train on the assist._

Suddenly Dom's eyes lit up. "You could do it, Baird," he said, and he was a lot more enthused about the idea than expected. "If she was released into your custody, you'd be in the perfect position to get her a place with the medical staff at Fort Collier. If she's serving, the breeding laws don't apply to her. You'd be free to go your separate ways whenever you wanted."

That was a loophole Baird hadn't considered, but Dom was right. Being with him was Chelsea's best chance to put her life back together. Assuming she'd want to put it back together. He'd been so preoccupied with making sure Dom didn't freak out over this whole thing he hadn't really thought through a long-term plan. What if she decided she wanted to stay out on the road with Clay Carmine?

"I don't know," Baird said, feigning reluctance. "Let me check my schedule and get back to you on that." If he didn't offer token resistance, Santiago would get suspicious. He wasn't stupid, he just wasn't a genius.

For a long moment, he endured varying degrees of annoyed stares from his two 'superiors.' It was bad enough before when he had to deal with Marcus's sergeant-like tendencies, but now Dom had finally earned his stripes. Baird predicted that would eventually lead to some friction between the two old friends as Dom slowly discovered his wings and took flight from the nest, but for now they were directing all their combined sergeant-ire on him.

"Fine, I'll do it," he relented, turning to head in the direction of the jail. He noted Wixler giving a subtle, appreciative nod. Yes, he'd wheedled a blessing out of Dom. It was perhaps his most tactful moment ever. He could just imagine the tactful beating he'd receive if Santigo ever found out he'd been had. If he'd just come out and asked, would Dom really have said no?

Maybe, maybe not. Either way, this had definitely been a learning experience.

Suddenly jerked to a stop, Baird whipped his head around to find Dom gripping his upper arm. "Damon," Dom said, not angry not sad, but fully in dad-mode nonetheless. "If you really don't want to do this, then I'll take the risk. You don't have to get involved."

Dammit. Whatever he held over Santiago in IQ, Dom more than made up for it in emotional intelligence. It was an area Baird did not excel in.

Baird sighed, giving a little eye roll, but it was mostly directed at himself. "All right, all right. Listen, I like her, okay? I friggin' like her. I was going to tell you all, but then she went and disappeared and I couldn't do it. Are you happy now?"

All of a sudden Baird realized why he'd been jumping through hoops for the past twenty minutes. Not to avoid Dom's wrath, but to avoid a public admission. Somehow, in his twisted-up view of relationships, saying it out loud to his squad made it real. Making it real scared the hell out of him, so much so his chest felt paralyzed for a painful moment, like his heart stopped beating and his lungs froze over. He was really doing this. It was crazy. This was the sort of disastrous thing he watched other people charge into while he sat back and wondered how they could be so clueless. He'd been so angry when he first saw her, and where had that anger gone? Surely it hadn't just disappeared. What if it came back after he waded in up to his neck in this shit?

Stunned, Dom's hand dropped from Baird's bicep. His dark eyes remained a bit wide and it took him a full minute to think of something to say. "You like her?" Dom asked, pausing when he blinked like he still didn't believe it. "And she actually likes you?"

Oh. So that's how people felt when he blurted out stupid, insensitive things. Pissed off, annoyed. Hurt? Did he feel hurt?_ Nope. Still not a pussy._

"If she doesn't like him, she faked it well enough," Wixler snickered.

"Bet you didn't think your fantasy of making out with a girl in handcuffs would ever come true, huh, baby?" Cole teased. "Guess it could've been under better circumstances."

"Ha ha," Baird enunciated, his eyes narrowed nearly to slits. "Just remember, I know where both of you assholes sleep."

Wixler just laughed and shook his head, clapping Baird on the shoulder like a buddy. "Ah, man, are you for real? You're going to be too busy getting laid tonight to prank us, unless you fuck it up."

The look that passed between Marcus and Dom didn't escape Baird's notice. There was a moment of understanding between the two, and it looked an awful lot like, '_He'll probably fuck it up._' What the hell did those two know? When was the last time either of them got laid?

At that moment Anya cleared her throat, and Baird amended his thought. Okay, so it was possible Fenix had gotten some tail lately. The man still shouldn't be throwing stones, and all that.

"I'm sure all of that is beside the point at the moment," Anya said very diplomatically. "Chelsea will have to agree to the union. It's no small thing. In the eyes of the COG, a union is basically a marriage."

Dom glanced over at Baird, possibly to judge his reaction to that. Truthfully, it scared the shit out of him even more, but he didn't let on. After all, what was the worst that could happen? They'd get pissed off at each other and separate within a week?

No, the worst thing would be if they actually fell for each other, and then he figured out too late he couldn't do the picket fence hoopla. Actually, when his pessimistic side really got rolling, he could think of even worse things than that. Most of them involved various scenarios of falling hard for this girl he really hardly knew, knocking her up, and then having her run out on him for another guy. Not only would it be a huge kick in the teeth, but he'd be forced to pay child support for the rest of his life.

She wouldn't do that to him, right? It was hard to be optimistic. He'd been burned more than once, and the latest scalding hit him just a couple months ago. He still had to tell Chelsea about the charges leveled against him. It might give her pause.

"You're sure this is what you want to do?" Dom asked.

"You going to try to talk me out of it?" Baird countered. He knew his stance had become rigid, the set of his shoulders almost defensive.

Putting his hands up in a placating gesture, Dom took a step back. "No way, man. This is between you and Chelsea. If it's what you both want, then the timing couldn't be better."

That was surprisingly practical and objective. What kind of meds did the shrink at Fort Collier put Dom on anyway? Logic pills? More often than not, Dom's greatest strength had been his loyalty and heart. His instincts in battle were superb, and his friendships were built to last. Baird had to admit he grudgingly admired those qualities even though they sometimes irked the shit out of him because sometimes Dom let emotion carry the day when he shouldn't.

"Sound good?" Dom asked when Baird didn't respond. He extended a hand for Baird to shake.

A handshake over a girl? Really? It reminded Baird of Wes Kendall. He'd asked Dom's permission to date Chelsea, thinking they were blood relatives.

"Yeah, all right." Baird took the extended hand, gripped it firmly and allowed for a brief shake. "Any chance I can get a dowry for her? I'll take payment in cash, land or gold."

It was Marcus who smacked him across the back of the head in passing. Yep, things were definitely getting back to normal.

"So what's your news, boss-man?" Cole asked as they headed out, Delta finally reunited.

"It'll keep until we get this sorted out," Marcus said, and then he fell into his usual brooding silence, leading the way down the street.

"So, where's Solice?" Dom asked.

* * *

"Ya, my dad, he's kind of like the care-taker in my neighborhood," Maleko told her. They'd been trading stories to pass the time while they sat in the drunk tank with two other disorderly individuals, both of which were content to keep to themselves. "There's lot of orphans in the Islander neighborhoods. We're a tribal people, so the gangs come naturally. My dad tries to take the young ones off the street and educate them. His grandfather was a chief way back when, and he says we owe it to preserving the tribe."

"Dom found his son in an Islander neighborhood. He had an old woman named Nai-Nai taking care of him after his mother abandoned him," Chelsea said.

"Na, see Nai-Nai is a term of endearment or respect. It's not a name. We had a woman went by that title, but she passed on this year. She had a boy she took care of, but he wasn't Islander."

"Named Carlo, right?" Chelsea asked, lounging back against the slightly sticky masonry wall at her back. The bench under her butt was made of wood, and it wasn't comfortable to sit on for long. She kept shifting positions, trying to get comfortable. "That's Dom's son. Marcus found him the day I ran into you at that checkpoint. Dom didn't even know he had a living son."

"Carlo's the Sergeant's kid?" Solice asked, a little skeptical. "You sure? Sarge seems pretty tight-laced. Carlo's trouble. My dad won't touch him, he's afraid Carlo would be a cancer for the kids he's already got. Don't get me wrong. I know the kid. He ain't bad all the way through. He's a little too smart for his own good, you know?"

Chelsea shook her head. "I have no idea. I only met Carlo once before...you know."

Maleko somberly nodded. "Yeah, I know. I'm real sorry about everything that happened. I've seen the farms. And that night, I just couldn't send another girl there on a false charge."

"How did you know it was falsified?" Chelsea asked, floored by her cellmate's perceptiveness. How had he known? She knew MPs dealt with these sorts of situations every day and gained a professional familiarity with them, but she'd hardly seen him for five minutes that night.

"Wasn't hard to figure out. Some guy pressed an assault charge against you, but you didn't fight me getting out of the truck? Had to arrest plenty of crazy girls, and they always crazy. They fight everybody, they always running at the mouth. You didn't fight the arrest, didn't even talk back. Figured you either fought him off in self-defense or he thought you slighted him and he figured he'd get back at you."

Looking down at his forearm, one finger tracing over the blue tattoo swirls, Maleko seemed to still take his failure to heart even though she sat beside him, alive and well. Relatively well, anyway.

"Thanks for helping me," Chelsea said, patting one of Maleko's thick forearms, hoping the words and gesture would lend him some comfort. He seemed like a good kid, wise beyond his years, and she didn't want him eaten up by guilt by events he never could've foreseen. "You gave me a fighting chance and that's all I can ask for. I'm just really glad you didn't get in trouble for it."

"Yeah, sure," Solice said, clearly unconvinced.

Just then the large steel door far down the dim hallway creaked and groaned when someone pulled it open, probably one of the MPs. Solice got up and went over to the bars, craning his neck to see down the hallway, pressing his cheek against the iron bars to get a better view.

"It's Sarge and Baird," he said.

"Dom's a sergeant," Chelsea repeated, shaking her head a little as the fact really sank in for the first time. He'd come a long way over the past year. Lessened dependance on Marcus, a new interest in getting ahead in life, taking on increased responsibilities. Dom was a teacher at heart, more so than Marcus could ever be. Serving in the role of sergeant should be good for him, and good for the men in his squad. The COG needed the experience of men like Dom, whether they'd admit it to themselves or not.

Younger wasn't always better.

An MP unlocked the door of their cell, sliding it open. "Solice, you're free to go," the MP announced. He didn't look very happy about it. Dom must've really kicked his ass.

Dom stepped around the MP, stepping inside the cell to pull Chelsea into a firm embrace. "I'm so glad you're okay," he said, squeezing her tight. "We looked for you, Chelsea. I swear we did. I'm so sorry we didn't find you."

He was warm, and just as rock solid as ever. He smelled spicy, like aftershave and deodorant. And he still cared. She had no doubt he'd worried about her. It made her feel a fresh wave of guilt.

"Have you seen my mom?" Chelsea asked, half choked, her arms hardly able to go all the way around Dom's thick chest. His ribs had healed up just fine, although her fingers found a small knot around the site of the injury he'd endured. "Is she okay?"

"She's..." Dom nearly faltered. "She's had some bad days lately. I've gone to see her when I can."

Chelsea's eyes fell shut. "She won't remember me, will she?"

Moving back, Dom held her face in his two large hands, brushing away the hot tears falling down her cheeks. "Chelsea, if it's possible for you to be happy today, that's what your mom would want for you. Trust me."

Her voice cracked when she spoke. "Today? Why today?"

Dom looked over at Baird, and the two exchanged a knowing look. "You guys need to talk," Dom said. Giving Chelsea one last pat on the shoulder, Dom let her go, snapping his fingers at Maleko in passing. "Come on, Solice. Say good-bye to your host."

"Good-bye, asshole," Maleko parroted, mocking the man who'd arrested him with a child-like wave, his incredibly white teeth on display in a wide grin while he followed his sergeant down the hall. Just like a cheeky kid who got out of trouble because his dad happened to be the baddest mother on the block.

The MP scowled, slamming the door of the cell shut with Baird and Chelsea still inside. "Don't take all night," he growled. "You have fifteen minutes, then you get out, with or without her."

A deep furrow settled on Chelsea's brow. "What's he talking about?" she asked.

Baird nodded toward the bench she'd left just moments before. "Let's sit down and talk."

So they sat down, turned toward each other but not quite touching. It was the first moment they'd had alone that hadn't been completely charged with emotion or hormones in Chelsea's memory. This was the first time they'd had a chance to really be straight with each other, like a real couple.

_Is this where it starts for us? In a jail cell?_

"I, uh," Baird started. "I kind of screwed up. A couple months ago I got drunk when Cole was in town visiting and I nearly got busy with a co-worker. An officer assigned to my team for the project I'm currently heading for the COG. She came back with me to my room, and she found your stuff next to my bed."

"Why's my stuff next to your bed?" Chelsea asked.

Baird shrugged, rolling his eyes a little. "I have it in a duffel bag I keep under my bed. Your clothes still smell like you, and some nights I get...uh...you know."

"Lonely?" she asked, a mischievous smirk on her face. "I don't know if I should be flattered or creeped out."

Baird gave her a look that basically said, '_So sue me._' "She saw your stuff and she freaked out. As the recipient of the lowest-self-esteem-of-the-decade award, she wanted me to toss it before she'd put out and I told her to go to hell, so she threw a few things at my head and then left. At the time I figured it was for the best; mixing work and pleasure and all that. And then two days later I was arrested on a rape charge. Four weeks later, I was served with a paternity suit."

"But you didn't have sex with her. There wouldn't be any evidence..."

"She _was_ raped," Baird said. "I don't know where she went after she left my quarters, but she ended up in the hospital by the next morning and she said I did it. She said I beat her up and took advantage of her. People saw us leave the bar together, so it's my word against hers and you need to know I might not win. I've offered to submit for DNA comparison and they're stone-walling me, which could mean no DNA was collected. Not only that, but this woman still works on Fort Collier. She's jealous, conniving and vindictive. She's firing everything she's got at me, and if you're with me, I'm afraid she might go after you too."

Chelsea nodded. That was a lot to take in. "I kissed Clay once," she admitted. She figured she might as well both start with a clean slate while they were at it. "I got to a point where I really thought I'd never see you again and I had a weak moment. I had no idea you two had history."

The stare she got from Baird was level enough to balance books on. "Just so we're clear, are you changing the subject because you're okay with all this or because you're overwhelmed by the implications?"

"Do I need to make a decision right now?" she asked, and she probably resembled a deer in APC headlights.

"You do, actually. Because the only way you're getting out of here tonight is if we register a union. Then you'll be released into my custody and you'll be free to come back to Fort Collier with me."

If she hadn't already been sitting down, she probably would've fallen on her ass. "Then I guess we have a lot to talk about in fifteen minutes," she said.

* * *

"Sign here, and here," the very bored clerk informed Chelsea and Baird.

The couple stood at the front desk of the jail with Cole and Dom as bookends. The four leaned over a piece of paper, adding their signatures one at a time, starting with Cole as Baird's witness. Dom stood as Chelsea's witness.

"So, why do I have to change my name again?" Chelsea asked.

"One household, one name," the clerk snapped off, like he'd answered the same question a dozen times just that day. "It saves on confusion and paperwork."

"Hey! What's wrong with my name?" Baird asked, using his 'feigning annoyance' voice.

"Beside the fact no one knows your first name?" Chelsea responded, but she was cheerful about it. "If someone yells 'Baird' at me, I probably won't respond. You're Baird."

"I don't know, Shrink-Lady. I think 'Chelsea Baird' has a nice ring to it," Cole teased.

"I second that motion," Damon said, scribbling his name on the piece of paper before passing it to Chelsea.

"I kind of like Damon Ferria myself," Dom chimed in, leaning on the counter with both elbows while he waited for the document to make its way down the line.

"Don't jinx yourself, Dom. You say things like that and you'll end up running into some lady who'll slap you stupid until you marry her and take her name," Baird said, watching Chelsea sign her name to the document. If things worked out, it would be the last time she'd sign her maiden name to an official document.

Anya stood next to Marcus, watching the proceedings. "Do you think they'll work out?" she asked, keeping her voice down.

Marcus shrugged, keeping his arms firmly crossed over his chest. "Who knows."

Then the silence returned between them. It wasn't like the more comfortable silences they'd shared before Vectes, and before the Slab. Back then, they were kept apart by fate. The war, the institution they served. They both knew it, and there was nothing to be said. Why dredge up the painful what-ifs?

Now silence came with a lack of understanding, with a healthy dose of self-loathing on both sides.

"Marcus, about what you said earlier...about having kids... Did you always feel that way?" she asked. It was a double edged question. Had she imagined that he'd shared the dreams she'd once had for the two of them? Had he returned to her over the years because she was sterile?

She'd had a pelvic infection in her mid-twenties. It had ravaged her, leaving her weak and bed-ridden before it finally loosened its grip, succumbing to treatment. It wasn't a sure thing, but the doctors told her she'd probably never have children. Anya still remembered the moments following that revelation. She'd laid on a hospital cot, surrounded by wounded Gears who all needed a bed far more than she did. Anya remembered guilt cutting her up inside while she'd cried silently.

Motherhood was never on her must-do list. She'd always thought it would come in the natural course of events, and she'd mourned the loss because no one else would. Her mother was gone, and Marcus...as usual, Marcus hadn't been there with her when she'd needed him most.

Still, she'd felt terrible for shedding selfish tears when there were men all around her in such bad shape. Some of them didn't survive. What she'd lost seemed so small in comparison, and she'd told herself that over and over again through the years, every time the fact tried to rear its ugly head and make her feel sorry for herself.

Days later, when she'd finally had a chance to tell Marcus what the doctor said, he hadn't said anything. Nothing at all.

"I actually pissed off an old Islander woman about ten years ago and she cursed my loins right before she spat in my face, so it's probably a moot point."

She'd never heard that story, but she'd bet Dom had.

"Her words or yours?" Anya asked.

"Hers. And no, I didn't always want it that way," Marcus finally admitted, remarkably calm, as if he'd used up all his anger in his earlier outburst. Anya noted he watched his former squad mates carefully, in spite of putting on a shield of bored aloofness. "Being around Sylvie and Bennie used to make me think sometimes," he added, his unusual frankness startling her.

"Dom's kids?" she asked softly. She'd only seen them once or twice at military functions. She knew Marcus had been a frequent visitor to Dom's house, but he'd never taken her there. At the time she'd longed for closeness to anyone close to Marcus, but in hindsight she was a little relieved the burden of their loss didn't weigh quite so heavily on her as it would've if she'd gotten to know Maria and the children.

Cracking his neck from one side to the other, Marcus rolled his thick shoulders, cracking his spine. He always did that when pushed toward a subject he'd rather avoid. At least he had since he'd joined the military and become a constant hardass.

"They used to call me Uncle Marcus, and they didn't seem to care I wasn't very good with kids." Then he nodded to Dom. "He should've walked Sylvia down the aisle instead of searching for substitutes. Can't help but wonder if something my dad worked on is the reason he never will."

_He misses them, _she realized. _And he blames his family for their deaths, maybe even for everyone who died. _

Professor Fenix couldn't have had anything to do with the Locust, could he? After all, their presence on Sera seemed to date back further than the Professor's lifetime. Then again, Anya remembered some of the things Delta had run across at the secret facility they'd visited. The research there that led to the sires, the Locust Queen's intimate knowledge of Marcus's father. Maybe all of it left Marcus wondering if his father had helped create the Locust in one of his weapons projects.

Before the ink could dry on Dom's signature, the clerk snatched the paper up and filed it. "Congratulations, you may kiss your...whatever," he said.

Chelsea scoffed at the clerk's abruptness. "And they say romance is dead," she deadpanned.

"If we make it to our one-year, I'll make it up to you. We'll go all out," Baird said, pulling her under his arm as the four of them turned to head for the door. "I can see it now. Topless mud wrestling at the reception for all the ladies...well, unless you prefer jello."

Chelsea's eyes rolled over to Dom. "Can you believe this guy?" she asked, pointing to Baird. In spite of the un-amused look on her face, Anya noted Chelsea's arm remained firm around Damon's waist, holding him close.

Dom just smiled and shook his head. "Hey, you married him. He's your problem now."

"This is great," Cole said, coming up behind the three and pulling Dom in under one arm and Chelsea and Baird under the other. "We got a promotion _and_ a wedding to celebrate."

"Technically that wasn't a wedding," Baird pointed out.

"Maybe not, but I still think we outta celebrate, don't you? The Cole Train's buying!"

"Well, when you put it that way..."

"I can't drink with my meds," Dom reminded.

Cole let go of Chelsea and Damon, continuing on toward the door with an arm around Dom's shoulders. "Ah, come on, baby. One beer. Just one. What's the worst that could happen?"

"It's never just one, and the meds make me a lightweight."

Chelsea and Baird fell behind. Anya smiled a little bit when she realized they were both named Baird now. When the focus shifted off of them, and everyone started moving toward the door, they shared a brief kiss with Chelsea going up on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around Damon's neck, his large hands resting on her hips. It was their first kiss as an official couple, and they'd likely remember it forever.

Anya looked away to give them some privacy. The first step she took after standing still so long was the worst. She leaned hard on her cane, and Marcus remained right beside her. He looked tired and worn. Shouldn't he have been even a little bit happy right now? Everyone else was.

"So what's your news?" she asked. "What're you sitting on?"

"I called Richtner," he said, keeping his voice down. She was surprised he'd responded so readily, almost like he'd needed to tell someone. What had made him so ready to share tonight? "Let him know it was going to take an extra day to look over the site. He was pissed."

Anya paused, leaning on her cane with one hand and rubbing at her lower back. "That's not surprising. I don't think I've seen him go five minutes without blowing something out of his ass."

Marcus also paused, moving close to her. They looked just like an ordinary couple, perhaps discussing their bar hopping plans for the evening. "Not about the extra time it would take. When I told him Delta showed up with all men accounted for after the attack, it seemed to take him by surprise. I originally told him we were going to convoy with Delta on highway 85 and then he sent us out on an errand this morning, so far out of our way we had to use another route to get here."

Anya's blue eyes widened. "Do you think he hired mercs to go after Delta? But, why?"

"I don't know," he finally said. "But the only thing I can think of is it might have something to do with that airfield we're surveying tomorrow." He paused, and she got the feeling he was about to say he thought she should hang back the next day.

"The airfield Bender is selling the rights to?" Anya pressed, not giving him a chance to say it. Honestly, she wasn't sure if she could take it from him. "Wouldn't they be interested in seeing the deal go through? Brokering properties is how they make most of their profits. Believe me, I've had to dig through their records for a month, they do deals and trades like this all the time."

"The airfield the COG is strong-arming Bender into selling, at less than market value."

"All right," she acknowledged with a slight nod. "Let's say Bender doesn't want to deal. Why hire someone to kill the survey team? They'll just send a better armed team. And what about Dom's theory about kidnapping? There have been some reports of that along the coast."

Marcus shook his head. "Not this far north. Down south, in the less populated areas, but not within five hundred miles."

"So what then? What do you think they were after?"

Marcus glanced back over his shoulder before moving through the door, holding it open for her and making sure they were out of earshot in front and behind. "I don't think you get a guy like Baird to bake cookies. Whatever he's working on, he needs this airfield for it, and someone doesn't want him to succeed. I think they wanted him: either out of the way, or under their control."

"Are you going to tell him?" Anya asked, alarmed. "Marcus, if that's true and you told Richtner where we are..."

"I told him we're staying in another settlement ten miles north. I'll keep watch tonight and tell them in the morning. Look at them, Anya. When was the last time you saw them like this?"

Looking ahead at Dom and Cole joking and trading play-jabs, and then behind at Baird and Chelsea bringing up the rear, hand-in-hand, Anya knew he was right. This was the happiest she'd seen Delta in a long time. Tonight they'd celebrate. In the morning, they'd get back in the game.

"They're all happy," she opined, carefully making her way onto the sidewalk, carefully navigating around a split in the concrete. "Everyone but you, Marcus."

This time, he didn't answer her.


	40. Part 2: Chapter 9

_AN: So, it's been a long time since I've posted to any of my stories. About a year now, I guess. Last year I tried to do National Write a Novel Month, and I completely stalled on my original project, and then on writing in general. Mostly, because I met a guy, which is usually something I wouldn't share on here, but I thought it was relevant because I met him on Gears of War ;) What started out as casual teasing and flirting between complaining about overpowered sawed-off shotguns is now a fully fledged relationship, and we are now dating locally as he has moved halfway across the country so we can be together. We attended Pax Seattle together last month, where we met CliffyB and got pictures with him just weeks before he left Epic Games. To say the least, it's been a very busy year, but this story was never far from my thoughts and I do intend to finish it. This chapter took a long time in the making, and no matter how many times I wrote it, I could never get the story going in the direction I wanted, but I think I've got it going in an interesting direction now._

_To recap, Delta is working together on a routine surveying mission that was rained on by a bunch of Stranded raiders. After the raid, Baird and Chelsea were reunited, and then Chelsea was arrested, and then Baird took it upon himself to get her out of jail by agreeing to enter into a Union with her. Dom's made sergeant recently, so the boys are on their way out to do some partying at the bars. I'm starting the chapter off by recounting the events that took place the night Chelsea disappeared from Baird's truck from Chelsea's perspective before returning to present events. I felt this would shed some light on her state of mind, and some revelations she's made along the way._

_P.S. I finally read The Slab, and while it did FINALLY shed some light on the relationship between Anya and Marcus, I still don't get it. It seemed kind of out of character-on Marcus's end, anyway. I won't spoil it, but it made him look pretty bad. I enjoyed the book, but I found Marcus's stay in prison to be a little too...nice, and sane... Then again, my mom worked in the pharmacy at a prison for 29 years and she always said the nicest people there were the inmates, so what do I know!_

* * *

_One year ago._

Chelsea ran until her lungs burned, her side ached like someone had punched her in the floating ribs. Her legs felt like jelly, barely stable enough to keep going. Oh, how she wished for Dom's stamina. It felt like she couldn't possibly run far enough, fast enough. Each breath ragged breath whistled through her tightening air pipe.

Just moments ago, she'd almost been taken, almost arrested and sent to the farms.

The chill in the early morning air felt like fire in her throat, and when she finally ceased her wild flight and started to look around, she realized she had no idea where she'd ended up. The city blocks had flown by during her mad dash, and she'd purposely taken a winding path to throw off pursuers. With her heart pounding in her ears, she forced herself to walk, shoving shaking hands into the large pockets on her coat—a weak attempt at appearing calm and casual. She passed three working women on the sidewalk, keeping her eyes down and trying to calm down.

Where could she go? What would they do with Damon? Should she go home? She'd run from MPs. She'd _run from MPs._

"I am so screwed," she whispered, still too frozen by fear to completely believe what she'd done. Surely, she'd wake up soon and none of this would be real. Would they really take her? All three of her brothers had died fighting for the COG. Her father had died for the COG. Her mother had lost her health and mental well-being for the COG. Chelsea had fought for the cause all her life.

Then again, she'd fought to stay alive—not for her freedom. Apparently that cost more. After everything she'd done, after the horror-filled life she'd led and everything she'd lost, here she was—a fugitive running from the COG's justice.

An MP had let her go. Dereliction of duty was unheard of these days. Marcus Fenix had gone to prison for it. Soldiers had been executed for it—until the army started running out of soldiers. The young man who'd pulled her out of Baird's truck wasn't much more than a teenager. His conscience must've weighed on him hard to let her go, and that didn't bode well for the fate awaiting her if she got caught.

Or for anyone harboring her.

"I can't go back," she whispered, so soft she mouthed the words. She began to cough; raising the sleeve of her coat to cover her mouth while her warm, over-exerted lungs protested against the cold nighttime air.

Her coughing covered the sound of footsteps behind her until it was too late. Chelsea just began to whirl around when a sharp crack sent a bolt of pain shooting through her skull, originating at the base of her head and exploding forward. Chelsea didn't remember hitting the ground, didn't even realize she'd fallen until cold, wet pavement and gravelly-grit dug into her palms and knees. For a second, she kept drifting sideways, like the ground tilted beneath her and she might slide down the sharp grade any second.

One breath, two breaths. The pavement started to level out again, but she still didn't feel like she could move for fear it might start to tilt again. She retched, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up. The whole world roared past her ears, like the winds of a hurricane.

Rough hands grabbed at her and she fought them weakly. Her mind struggled harder to reorient for the sake of survival, because she knew damn well those hands trying to hold her didn't have good intentions.

Chelsea took a breath and the world snapped back into fuzzy focus for just an instant before the air exploded from her lungs. A heavy fist buried itself in her abdomen, doubling her over. She retched again, a thin line of bloody saliva stretching from the center of her lower lip toward the pavement; the same pavement her forehead was just inches from touching until strong, restraining hands on her shoulders and arms snapped her back upright.

It felt like her internal organs wanted to crawl up her throat and out of her body, and it only got worse when she choked on the next half breath she tried to pull in.

"You think you can just walk onto our block, bitch!"

It was a woman punching her, and two more women restrained her. Women, not MPs. The three prostitutes she'd passed mistook her for a rival and decided to take matters into their own hands.

Chelsea struggled, she jerked against the arms holding her and tried to stand, only to have her legs go rubbery beneath her. She'd always thought she was tough, her brothers had made sure of it growing up, but a stiff enough beating could take all the strength and toughness out of anyone. She vaguely wondered if they'd cracked her skull open, and what they'd hit her with. Then, for just a moment, her eyes focused on a heavy stainless-steel revolver tucked into the ample waist-band of the woman delivering her beating.

There was fresh blood on the revolver's wooden handle, and a few blond strands of hair.

It was a .357 with a six inch barrel, Chelsea realized, her head lolling off to the side. Heavy, but easy to swing like a club, that revolver was perfect for cold-cocking perfect strangers, as Chelsea could attest.

"Hit her again, Lotta!" one of the prostitutes with thin, blond hair jeered.

"Gonna teach you a lesson," the large black woman huffed, short on breath from the exertion of delivering thunder-like blows. She must've done backbreaking labor during the war, because she was built like a small horse and she hit hard with a closed fist. She knew how to inflict damage to the human body.

She inflicted plenty on Chelsea.

* * *

Day blurred into another evening. Chelsea didn't know how long she'd laid on the floor, naked, her wrists and feet bound, her hands secured to the base of a rusty pipe. Long enough for the rope to dig painful troughs into her flesh. She hadn't been gagged, but yelling wasn't exactly uncommon in a whore house and her feeble shouts hadn't brought anyone to her aid. Her head pounded and her stomach had tied so tight into a knot it made her want to die. Everything hurt.

What the big black woman had left untouched with her brute strength had succumbed to the attentions of a sadistic young prostitute with straight, sickly-thin yellow hair. She was one of the women who'd held Chelsea for her beating, and when it was over Chelsea had fallen into the girl's care since they'd brought her here just before dawn broke into the lingering twilight.

At least she could understand the black woman and the other prostitute. For those two, it was war. War over territory and things Chelsea didn't understand because she'd been raised under the protective wing of the COG, and although she had killed in self-defense, she'd never been desperate enough to need to fight or kill for the things these women survived on. These were lean times, desperate times, and there were casualties of war. The black woman—Lotta—she was just a junk yard dog defending her turf. And there sure as hell wasn't a Dom Santiago, or anyone else out there just waiting to open their home to poor, defenseless Lotta. The world in its current state had made her justifiably vicious.

Would Lotta give out a beating to a rival prostitute? Chelsea was living proof of that, but Lotta hadn't killed her. She wasn't a murderess. Chelsea understood those things, those motivations.

She didn't understand the younger woman with the yellow hair. She didn't understand what made a person so black and twisted inside, and so eager to inflict the same darkness on others.

The door at the top of the stairs swung open suddenly, and the sharp crack of metal handle striking wood made Chelsea flinch. She'd been alone for hours, and now she heard urgent footsteps rushing downstairs.

In spite of her intimate knowledge of the futility of rising to her knees, she tried to do so anyway. If she had to meet to the yellow-haired woman again, she'd do it with half a chance to fight this time. She'd saved her strength over the course of the day, ignoring thirst, hunger and all other aches and pains in a constant quest to free her wrists from the rope bonds. For an eternity, Chelsea had worked at the ropes on her wrists, grinding the harsh hemp into her raw skin until it made silent tears run down her face and blood made her wrists and hands slippery, and then sticky.

But, to her surprise, the rushed steps didn't belong to the yellow-haired young woman. They belonged, instead, to the Madam of the house—a woman of perhaps forty who looked exactly the part. She even wore a long, dark gown that may have once been black satin. It was stained, rumpled and badly patched. Still, she wore it with an aloof dignity matched by the steel-gray highlights in her long hair, even when the look on her face was unabashed horror.

The prostitute with yellow hair had followed the Madam downstairs, albeit lazily, like the trip to the basement bored her. She hung on a four-inch, load-bearing post several steps back, yawning. She was still brazenly naked, her stick-thin body barely covered by Chelsea's long coat.

Hazel eyes wide, the madam stared down at Chelsea's broken body like she saw a demon before her.

"What were you thinking, bringing her here?" the Madam demanded, her eyes wild.

The yellow-haired woman scoffed. "What's it matter?" she asked, taking a home-made cigarette from behind her ear and sucking on the end out of habit, since she apparently had no flame to light it. "She was alone, out after curfew."

The Madam whirled. "MPs are looking for a woman just like her!" The older woman stocked over to the younger one, towering over her, although the girl appeared undaunted. The madam's bony finger poked the girl in the chest, right over the tape reading 'Ferria' on the breast pocket. "A woman in a COG jacket!" the madam hissed.

The girl took the cigarette between two fingers and removed it from her lips, still trying very hard to act unconcerned, her chin pressed forward in defiance. "She didn't have any identification. She's not COG." With that, the girl replaced the cigarette on her lip and crossed her arms over her chest, clearly beyond reproof.

The Madam snatched the roll of white paper and threw it down on the floor, and when the girl began to protest, she received a swift slap across the face.

"How can you be so stupid!" the Madam screamed. "Do you have any idea what they'll do to us if they find her here? She's not Stranded, she's not a whore, she's one of theirs!"

"Let them do what they will," the girl snarled, pulling open Chelsea's coat to reveal scars—horrible scars—stretching over her body. They were like war wounds, except too ordered to be accidental. Some of them were still raw, only a few months healed. Chelsea had served as a medic, albeit a short time, and she had no idea what had caused those wounds.

The Madam closed the last few inches, whispering harshly, although whispering in the damp basement was pointless. There was no one around to hear. "If you think you've felt pain in your life," the Madam warned, "wait until you get between a mob of COG men and one of their women. After dark, get rid of her."

After making her final decree, the Madam mounted the stairs, a stomping up the entire creaking flight.

* * *

Accompanied by Lotta, the yellow-haired girl escorted Chelsea from the house after dark. They'd had to free her feet long before they left, so enough feeling would return to those limbs to allow her to walk. Lotta refused to carry Chelsea over her shoulder.

"You think MP's wouldn't notice that?" she'd asked when presented with the request.

In the dark of night, the three of them left the old house in an odd little death march. Chelsea wore nothing but a heavy leather jacket—a garment left at the house by a customer who'd failed to retrieve it the next day. A pair of dirty, grimy slippers adorned her feet, but other than that she traveled completely naked under the jacket. The prostitute with yellow hair all but pranced in Chelsea's boots, flaunting her body to male passersby in Chelsea's dark green coat.

Lotta remained quiet bringing up the rear. The three of them walked with Chelsea in the middle of the line, her tied hands hidden by the bulk of the jacket. She didn't have the strength in her legs to run, and even if she tried, Lotta would just shoot her with the gnasher she carried. The same gnasher that would likely take Chelsea's life in short order.

They traveled a few blocks on foot before getting onto a truck with a bunch of other prostitutes. Fort Collier was just outside the city, and there was a little shanty town outside the patrol zones of both base and city that left a perfect corner for lawless bars and prostitutes galore; a playground for lonely soldiers.

Chelsea had tried to get out of the city, and she did. She passed through the gates with a gnasher muzzle secretly buried in her ribs, and without even a cursory glance from the MPs on duty.

A few miles outside the city, the yellow-haired prostitute signaled to the driver to stop and let them off, and the three of them continued on their way.

Chelsea's throat felt tight—dry from hours of dehydration, sore from screaming. More than anything, more than the pounding in her head and the rope fibers pulling one by one out of the deeply rutted wounds in her wrists, she wanted that burning in her throat to stop.

Before they got far from the road—out of earshot and eyesight—where sure-handed Lotta could take that shotgun and end Chelsea's life in a place where her body might never be found, Chelsea turned around and slammed her forehead into the blonde prostitute's pretty little nose.

"You bitch!" the woman screamed.

The yellow-haired prostitute grabbed Chelsea by the hair, twisting tight until her knees buckled, the girl's fingernails digging into her scalp. She ripped the jacket off Chelsea's body and flung it away, leaving Chelsea huddled, naked, her hands held close into her body, as if to cover her groin.

"Give me the gun," the girl demanded, blood dripping from her broken nose, grabbing at the shotgun in Lotta's hands. Lotta obeyed, never hesitating to give up possession of the weapon.

These women were never in the COG, but it was more obvious in the yellow-haired girl's case. She could inflict a great deal of pain on another person, but she wasn't strong, nor did she handle firearms well. With one hand on Chelsea and the other on the shotgun, she struggled to balance the two, awkwardly handling both.

"Do you think they would've come to save you?" she cooed, using the ground to brace the butt of the gnasher while she struggled to work the pump action with one hand.

In spite of her roots getting jerked out of her head, Chelsea noticed the girl actually racked a shell onto the ground, an amateur mistake. The brass-capped red casing rolled across the ashen waste of the ditch along the side of the road, replaced in the chamber by a second shell from the magazine.

Taking a shallow breath, Chelsea fought to control her fear.

"Answer me!" the girl screeched, her claw-like nails drawing blood from Chelsea's scalp.

A whimper escaped Chelsea's lips, and her head nodded up and down. _Just a little closer._

"Who would've saved you? Who the hell would want _you?_" the girl screamed, her pale eyes sparkling with bloodlust.

The girl liked to cause pain, and she liked to see weakness in others. Chelsea had learned that very well over the course of the day she'd spent bound, in the basement with this woman torturing her.

Lotta shifted behind them, looking off in the distance and taking a few steps back, away from the coming kill.

"Who would want you!" the girl demanded, leaning forward, leaning right over the shotgun she'd loaded to kill Chelsea with.

Dropping the remaining strands of hemp rope she'd held onto even after she'd slipped free, Chelsea reached out with both hands and clawed at the trigger guard. The shotgun went off, and the body fell to one side, leaving Chelsea down on one knee in the dirt. Her training never left her for a second. She pivoted on her down knee and brought the gnasher to her shoulder in one smooth movement, crisply sending the spent shell flying out the side of the gun when she worked the action, turning her aim on a very still Lotta.

The big woman didn't flinch in the moonlight, not even when Chelsea's finger slapped the trigger of the gnasher to a resounding, dead click.

"Lucky for me, you out of bullets," Lotta stated the obvious, bending to retrieve the live shell from the ground—the same live shell the blond prostitute had accidentally ejected while making a show of working the gun's action. Lotta held up the red shell with coffee-colored fingers, all but taunting her with it.

Chelsea tried to struggle to her feet, tried to run, but she didn't have the strength. Her body sagged and she couldn't even continue to hold the gnasher up, and even after she let it fall into the cradle of her arms it still felt impossibly heavy, like she'd never have the strength to raise it again. Her heart drummed in her chest, and even the short exertion had left her breathless and shaking uncontrollably.

"You have a family?" Lotta asked.

After a moment of thought, Chelsea reluctantly shook her head. "Not anymore," she croaked, the first words she'd spoken aloud since she'd been taken. She didn't manage much more than a sandpaper whisper.

This seemed to be the right answer, because Lotta nodded her head. "I see," she said. "Then I guess we better part ways here."

Pocketing the red shell, Lotta meandered slowly over to the girl's body and began to collect it, in spite of the mess.

"What was her name?" Chelsea asked, unable to look over at what she'd done and unable to bite back the tears clouding her eyes. She'd never had to kill a woman before, and her pistol had never ripped someone apart like that shotgun at close range. The buckshot had caught the young woman just under the chin, shredding her throat and face and unleashing a gushing geyser of blood.

"Don't matter much now, does it?" Lotta said, turning to go, her gruesome package under one arm. "From here on out, she's you. Keep the MPs from knocking on our door, looking for you."

If the MPs thought Chelsea was dead, then so would Baird and Dom, and just the idea of causing them that hardship made her heart crinkle and wither, twisting painfully in her chest.

They'd taken her in because she was young, and she'd been lucky enough to be born amongst the COG. They'd sheltered her and protected her, but now she was kneeling in a ditch, her naked front bejeweled with red droplets. This was how the vast majority of Sera lived; with very little hope, and no one to lend a hand.

"Wait," Chelsea called, rising to her feet, the shotgun hanging, barrel pointing at the ground, from her fingers down at her side. She limped after Lotta, setting down the shotgun to use both hands to angrily jerk her boots and one pair of military issue socks off the dead woman's feet. She'd had enough taken from her. It was time to start taking back.

Lotta patiently waited for Chelsea to finish lightening the load, and then gave her a silent nod before the two of them parted ways. Chelsea sat down on the edge of the road, the pebbled concrete biting into her bare ass while she angrily pulled on her boots.

Once laced up, she gained her feet and started walking, picking up the jacket along the way and hastily slinging it over her shaking shoulders, not even bothering to try to put it on properly. It engulfed her and cloaked her; hid her nakedness and the shotgun from view. Her body screamed for rest, for a break from the many pains, but she needed water. Water first, then food, and she had no money so she'd have to steal those things. And clothes. The first chance she got, she'd shave her head. It would be safer to travel as a young man, and more sanitary, considering she probably wouldn't get to bathe much.

She had a head wound, multiple traumas—mostly to her lower extremities—she was dehydrated, half-starved and exhibiting symptoms of shock. Her assets included a thick leather coat, socks, boots and a shotgun with no shells—nothing more, nothing less.

But, Goddamn it, she was not going down without a fight.

* * *

_Present Day..._

For some reason, Chelsea always thought it would be easy to drop the Charlie facade. She'd always thought she'd be glad to get rid of it. No more lying, no more standing with her shoulders hunched over, no more binding her chest, no more worrying about keeping her voice at a perfectly neutral pitch. No more pretending to ogle other women at the bars, and definitely no more putting up with Clay amusing himself by shoving girls in her direction.

The physical parts were easy enough. In Baird's motel room she showered, washed her hair and shaved her legs while he went out to procure new clothes for her. She stood barefoot on the chipped tile bathroom floor, wrapped in nothing but a towel and scouring her teeth. Not so much because her teeth needed it—Charlie did brush 'his' teeth every night—but because she needed a minute to let it all sink in. Charlie was invented a year ago, taking shape in the blink of an eye to shield her, protect her. He'd disappeared from existence just as quickly.

Or had he?

She'd spent so long viewing the world through the eyes of a young man. Being close with Baird did lend a part of her some comfort, but it also left her feeling awkward. Some of it probably came from habit—she'd very carefully avoided affection as Charlie—but some of it was the way he looked at her. In the few brief minutes of privacy they'd shared, he'd stared at her, at an unusual loss for words. It felt like he wanted to ask her something; something he hadn't worked up the nerve to ask even when they'd info dumped on each other back in the jail cell. They'd talked about everything from job situations to ration cards and even briefly about kids.

She'd expected him to ask her why she'd pretended to be a young man for the past year. He hadn't asked and she knew it would probably eat away at him until he got an answer. Baird didn't do well with mysteries. He liked to know things. All sorts of things.

The light above her was yellow and dim and patches of black mold patterned the ceiling above the shower, but overall this was a nice motel room. It actually had a mirror, and a private bathroom with plumbing that only leaked a little. Reaching out with the hand not currently operating her toothbrush, Chelsea wiped the vapor film from the motel's old mirror and realized she hardly recognized the grim face staring back at her.

Spitting into the sink, she tried not to notice her reflection: the hollowed eyes with dark circles under them, the thin face prematurely lined with worry, the sharp cheekbones and hacked off hair. She barely looked female anymore. Her nerves were frayed to the point of leaving her a trembling mess in weak moments, her confidence got shot to hell. How could Damon want her? How could anyone want her? He'd saved her and what could she possibly give him in return? What would she do if he changed his mind? It was hard to imagine she was worth the trouble he'd gone to already.

Chelsea jumped at a sharp rap on the bathroom door, startled because she hadn't heard the room's outer door open and shut.

"Hey. You drown in the bathtub or what?" Damon called from the next room, unfazed as ever.

Spitting into the sink one last time, Chelsea made sure her towel was carefully arranged around her and firmly tucked in under her bicep before opening the door, holding onto the edge with one hand just to make sure it stayed in place.

When he saw her, Baird swallowed whatever smartass comment he'd been about make, spending a moment just looking at her. He wasn't holding any clothes, and when Chelsea glanced around the room, she didn't see a pile waiting for her.

Noticing her gaze sweeping the room, Damon snapped out of his momentary reprieve, trying to cover for the lapse by scratching at the back of his head, pausing to clear his throat. "Uh, I uh, didn't really know what to get for you so I went and talked to Anya. She's on her way over with some things you can try on."

"Oh, okay," Chelsea said, nodding, no less awkward. They'd just discovered they really didn't know each other so well and it jerked them both from the lingering surrealism of the evening's events. From the COG's perspective they were all but married, but in truth they had a lot of catching up to do. The magnitude of that truth proved sobering. "Thanks for doing that."

The silence stretched out between them. The air from outside the bathroom was cooler and drier, and Chelsea shivered when a draft washed over her. She wondered what to do while she waited for her clothes to arrive. She didn't particularly want to put her old clothes back on; they were dirty and tattered.

"I don't want to do this," Baird said abruptly, and her heart jumped up into her throat. He must've seen the moment of panic in her eyes, because he made a placating gesture with both hands. "No, I want to do _this. _I just don't want it to be so...weird. You're standing all the way over there," he pointed to her, and then pointed to himself, emphasizing the distance between them. "And I'm all the way over here driving myself crazy. It's incredibly inefficient."

"Oh," Chelsea responded, more an autopilot response than anything. A burst of adrenaline had released when he said he didn't want to do this, and her heart still hadn't slowed from the scare. He could change his mind at any time. Any time at all. He wouldn't do that without at least talking to her about it, right?

"It's just... I've been trying to figure out how to ask you something for the past half hour, and you know subtle _really_ isn't my thing, so I'm just going to ask," he said, and then he took a deep breath, clearly about to ask.

"I was assaulted," she said abruptly, answering the question she knew was coming and saving him the discomfort of putting it to her bluntly. "But not by a guy. It's a really long story..." she said, and when her gaze caught on his blue-green eyes she realized he wasn't going anywhere. He might not want to know, but he _had _to know.

Thick tension stood between them for a long, drawn out moment. Chelsea had reported for early morning kitchen duty on an occasion or two while she'd served, and this thing standing between her and Damon felt exactly like too-sticky bread dough. The more she tried to work it, to get it off of her hands, the more it stuck to her.

Finally, Damon's face slackened and he took a step closer, placing warm hands on her hips and tugging her close. If they were going to be together, he couldn't always protect her. He couldn't call all the shots. Sometimes, he'd have to let things go if he wanted to keep her close. Baird liked order and he loved his ability to fix things.

He had to know he couldn't always fix her, or fix things for her. He might not even be able to keep her alive and free. Maybe that was why he'd never truly let a woman close?

"Let me ask you something," he said, running those hands slowly up her sides and around to her back, pulling her into his chest, the towel, at best, a tenuous separation between them. "Do you have any idea how sexy you are in that?"

"In a towel?" Chelsea asked, mentally shoving down the part of her that had spent the past year keeping Charlie intact. She was a woman, she reminded herself; a woman who very much enjoyed being held by this man. Things wouldn't be the same as before she'd left, but she wanted to do all she could to get back to that moment when she'd lost him.

"Or without it," Baird suggested, pressing a kiss to her lips and then holding her close when Chelsea laid her head on his chest.

_I could stay here forever, _she thought, soaking in his warmth and listening to the firm rhythm of his heartbeat under her ear. It really did shock her sometimes, how much tension she carried without knowing it. Like a hunter stalking with bow drawn, ready for pray or enemy to spring into her path at any moment, she'd remained tight at the jaw and between her shoulder blades for so long, she went weak at the knees when the weight suddenly lifted, leaving her boneless in Baird's arms. He had to hold her up, or else she would've fallen, and she had to take a few long, steadying breaths.

It had been such a long day, such a long time since she'd felt like this. Safe; really safe. Earlier today, she'd thought she felt safe for just a moment with Clay—but upon doing a side-by-side comparison, being with Clay couldn't possibly measure up. Everyone had demons these days, and although Chelsea knew Clay was a good man at heart, his demons drove him to an unquenchable wanderlust.

The thing Clay liked most about her was the mystery of her. She refused to share the most basic information with him, including her real name. It had been easier to simply pretend she didn't have a past. No dead family, no deteriorating mother she'd abandoned, no assault by a hyper-sexual prostitute, and definitely no murders on her conscience.

Out on her own, she'd discovered just how many people on Sera didn't have a single person in their corner. No one cared if they lived or died. For most of a year, she'd been one of them. Now she was back with her family, with people she didn't have to hide from.

"I missed you," she admitted sleepily, her eyes feeling heavy. "When things get really dark, you just pop off with these amazing Baird-isms." She smiled a little against his shoulder. "I can't believe you ran on top of a bar today."

"And I still can't believe I found you on a stripper stage," he countered, running his fingers through her short hair to the back of her head, using that grip to gently tilt her head back so he could kiss her again.

"I was making an _arrest_," she insisted between kisses—increasingly urgent kisses. They both remembered the last time they'd come to this crossroad. Back then it had seemed too soon for intimacy. They'd thought they would have time to get to know each other and enjoy each step of a relationship in its rightful turn.

"I love how tough you are," he said, and after a few backward steps, the bed caught Baird right at the back of the knees and he sat down. Chelsea landed, straddling his lap, with his sandpaper jaw between her hands and her lips locked with his.

Her fingers tore at his shirt, pulling it up until he raised his arms and let her lift it over his head.

The towel didn't put up much resistance when Damon tugged on it, causing it to fall, making an off-white terrycloth pool around where she sat on his lap.

He leaned back, pulling her with him onto the bed with her smaller body on top of his, pulling her upward until his mouth could reach one of her small breasts, sucking a nipple hard into his mouth while his left hand slipped down between them.

His left, middle finger dipped between her legs and he must've liked what he found, because he groaned in satisfaction against her chest.

Something deep inside her, deep in her belly, craved his touch. Breathy moans escaped her as he toyed with her breasts, switching back and forth between her two peaked nipples. Her eyes rolled back in her skull and her fingers ran over his hair, holding him to her breast. The noises she made got a little louder when two of his thick fingers slid inside and curled toward her pelvic bone, just barely tickling a spot deep inside that made her go wild.

When she couldn't take it anymore, she straightened up, fumbling with the button fly on his cargo pants while he scrambled for the tin square in one of his side pockets. Baird just managed to tear open the foil with his teeth as she freed him, and not a second past when he rolled the condom on, Chelsea mounted him, sinking down slowly so she could absorb the unfamiliar internal stretch, her hands braced against Baird's incredibly solid mid-section.

"Mmm," she breathed, moving up and then back down. In spite of what she'd endured in the past, this felt incredible. For just a moment, she'd been afraid it would hurt.

"You ready?" he asked. Thus far he'd waited patiently beneath her, his rough fingers stroking over her hips and thighs while she got situated, occasionally traveling higher to tease her wet, pink nipples.

"Yeah," she nodded. She was ready. She hoped. "Wait, what about Anya?"

"What about her?" Baird grunted, like it was the last thing on his mind. It probably _was _the last thing on his mind.

"Isn't she coming with clothes for me?"

Damon grabbed her hips tight, giving her one swift, powerful thrust that would've unseated her if he hadn't held onto her. Chelsea let out a short, involuntary cry of pleasure and for an instant she saw stars.

Not a thought existed in her head beyond marveling at the warm fullness inside her. Whoever said Damon talked a big game to make up for other shortcomings had obviously never been in this position with him.

"Still worried about Anya stopping by?" Damon asked, one cocky blond eyebrow curving upward to punctuate the question.

Dazed, Chelsea shook her head slowly, her entire body tingling. She shifted, moaning at the feel of him shifting inside her. "Mmm, do that again," she requested.

She vaguely heard Baird's heavy COG boots scuff on the fake hardwood floor as he widened his stance, slowly rotating his hips beneath her, stirring the glowing embers at her core. He took a moment to enjoy feeling her, giving her just a bare amount of rocking while he cupped her ass in both hands.

Chelsea moaned, sensing this was the calm before the storm.

"You may want to hang on to me," he said. As she watched, his sculpted torso grew taunt beneath her, the lines between his abs and the vee at his hips beginning to stand out.

Chelsea nodded in agreement, reaching down to grip Baird's thick wrists even though she had a feeling it would be his grip that mattered—hers would probably go weak right along with the rest of her.

_Don't get too loud. Marcus and Dom's room is next door, _Chelsea mentally reminded herself.

Baird's boots were still planted on the floor, and with a tight grip on her hips, he used the leverage to thrust up into her, at first giving it to her deep and slow, but soon steadily increasing the pace. No matter what speed he went, he gave her one hell of a ride. Sometimes it didn't seem possible he could go so long, and so fast and so deep.

And although she didn't have a moment's pause about it until later, Chelsea definitely got way too loud.

* * *

Over the years, when Anya had envisioned Chelsea Ferria, she'd always thought the girl would be more like her. After all, they shared several commonalities; both the only daughters of successful infantry officers, both had done service, and both of them had lost virtually all other family members. In fact, Chelsea's father and Anya's mother had graduated in the same class from the officer's academy in Jacinto. Anya had expected, to some degree, to find a kindred spirit in the girl.

Their parents had been good friends. Major Justin Ferria of B Company, 10th RTI, even served with Helena Stroud at one point early in their careers. Anya could still remember Major Ferria. As a little girl, she'd thought him a large man, although he'd probably only been as tall as Dom, about six feet tall—three inches shorter than Marcus. He'd had a full head of blond hair he kept cropped short, not unlike Baird's current short haircut, a square jaw and sharp blue eyes, and he'd remained fit throughout his life. He'd been the sort of man who looked all the better for every year he aged.

Anya could distinctly remember him dropping in for visits to her mother's office in his dress blues, starched white hat tucked under his right arm like a thrashball. As a child she'd worked for her mother as an unpaid intern whenever Helena was assigned to Jacinto for an extended period of time. Anya's intern duties had included filing papers, typing things up and all sorts of other boring things. She'd always looked forward to the rare occasions when B and C Company would be in at the same time, and Major Ferria might stop in for one of his rare visits. He'd stride into the C Company offices like he owned the place, his eyes twinkling when he caught sight of Anya sitting behind the desk with the cadet intern serving as secretary. He'd always had a piece of candy or two he'd slip to her, doing so on the sly because he knew Helena disapproved of her daughter indulging in sweets.

Most of Major Ferria's visits had only lasted a few minutes. Brief exchanges with Anya's mother, typically laden with troop movements and where they'd each been and where they were going next. Sometimes they'd talked about the troops they'd lost. Occasionally Major Ferria would take Anya and her mother out to lunch, and then he'd focus more on her, asking Anya what she wanted to be when she grew up and if she liked boarding school.

Major Ferria had three sons; the oldest, Michael, just a couple years younger than Anya, and the twin boys five or six years younger than Anya. Chelsea didn't come along until several years later, when contact between Helena and Justin began to taper as their careers progressed and the war escalated.

For a long time in Anya's early life, Major Ferria had served as an example of what a man should be: handsome, honorable, polite but direct, a hard worker and a harder fighter.

In many ways, Chelsea resembled her late father, but not in any of the ways Anya had expected. Chelsea made Anya feel almost—girly—with her painted nails, conditioned hair and light makeup. The girl had come out of a jail cell coated with grit after a hard day on the road, and a daring rescue in the dusty hills at the base of the Skala mountain range. Her hair was a darker blond than her father's, and after months of mistreatment it was ragged and tangled, in dire need of a good wash and a trim, but she didn't seem to sweat the split ends. Her fingernails were short and blunt, and equally dirty. Her face was angular and individual muscles could be counted at the hinge of her jaw, which would've lent credibility to her alternate persona. Her eyelashes probably hadn't seen mascara in this lifetime, and the rest of her face had never been exfoliated, moisturized or powdered. Her clothes hung from her frame, secured by thick leather belt, everything she wore was worn at the edges from hard use, and patched in the knees.

Anya hadn't been surprised by Baird's request for new clothes for Chelsea, but she'd been a little surprised he'd come to her room and asked himself. Damon hadn't ever gone out of his way to interact with her in the past. It was almost endearing, the way he'd stumbled over the request, fumbling with asking her to pull together a complete outfit—undergarments included—to clothe the new woman in his life.

"Hey, do me a favor?" he'd asked her in parting. "Don't go corrupting her with the makeup, panty-hose and high-heels. Fenix may like that shit, but I've got no use for it—no offense," he'd said with slight incline of his head and an unapologetic shrug.

She'd held back from cracking a joke about how she hadn't worn high heels in quite some time, seeing as it didn't mix with walking with a cane, but instead she'd just given him an eye roll and a wave of dismissal. She knew he hadn't meant any harm. Damon's main line of thought often diverted to heavier lifting, and many times he blurted things out with no filter. Then again, sometimes he simply blurted out things without thinking.

Anya arranged herself on the stoop of the motel room Baird had rented for the night, placing the rubber end of her cane carefully on the crumbled concrete while switching the clothes she carried from her free arm to the arm she used to support herself. Oh, how she missed the convenience of having two free hands.

She raised one hand to knock on the door, paused, and listened. Was that...bedsprings?

To her left, Marcus's door opened and his pale blue eyes caught hers in the dimly lit motel parking lot. In one hand he held his bandanna, the other hand smoothed his freshly-showered, dark hair. His hair had always liked to kick up in the front and he had several colics at the back of his head. When he'd been younger, Anya knew he'd always been a little self-conscious about his hair sticking up.

"I have clothes for Chelsea," Anya said, in explanation of her presence there.

He made a sound, like a gruff grunt of amusement. "Trust me," he said, "she's not going to need them tonight."

As if to prove Marcus's point, at that moment a thump came from the other side of the door, like a body getting pressed up against it, followed by all the tell-tale sounds of a strong, young couple fully engaged in enjoying each other.

The corner of Anya's mouth ticked up against her will and her face grew hot, although she wasn't quite sure if it was from embarrassment at being an unwitting listener to Chelsea and Baird's private moment, or remembering, many years ago, Marcus putting her back against a wall and giving her everything he had. They'd never been carefree youths, but when they were young less hardship had weighed them down. They'd given of themselves more freely.

_He'd probably break my hip if we did that now. And he's getting some years on him, _she thought with a grim smile. _He might throw out his back._

Maybe it was because she'd become so frail, but in her eyes, Marcus seemed just as solid as ever. She definitely didn't mind seeing him in civies—wearing a pair of khaki cargo pants belted around trim hips and a tight, black t-shirt that stretched delightfully over his broad, muscular torso.

How had Helena Stroud described Marcus on his first day under her command with C Company? If Anya recalled correctly, in private, her mother had used the term, 'Jailbait.'

"Is this," Anya made a circling gesture with her cane toward Baird and Chelsea's door, "unexpected? An hour ago Baird was trying to convince you to get her out of jail."

Marcus shrugged. "First action Baird's gotten in years that didn't involve power tools," he said, inclining his head forward so he could apply the bandana first to his forehead, and then smoothed it back with his palms, tying the neat knot to secure it while he walked—making his way toward the bar where Dom's promotion party was in full swing.

Anya set the clothes she'd carried over one arm down in a pile in front of the door, and then maneuvered around on her cane to fall in next to him.

"You aren't jealous, are you?" she asked, teasing gently. "How many potential suitors can one girl have? Clay, Baird..."

"Always seems like she's got too damn many." His voice came out harsh. Surprisingly harsh.

For the first time, Anya started to wonder if Marcus was just putting on his usual show of sergeant surliness, or if he just didn't like Chelsea Ferria. Dom seemed so happy to see the girl alive, and Anya had assumed Marcus would share his friend's enthusiasm, in his own vicarious way. Perhaps the distance between the two friends had grown greater than appeared on the surface.

But without Dom, what exactly gave Marcus direction these days? He worked all day and then he went home to an empty apartment. Anya knew from experience an only child could tolerate solitude, but without the COG and without his friends around him, what kept Marcus going? What had kept him going in the Slab? If not a desire for a family, for promotion or retirement and a pension, then what did he hope and dream for?

"Seems like you're getting stronger, walking around." His voice startled her from preoccupied thoughts. Ever since she'd run into him all those weeks ago, she'd wondered if he didn't ask about her injury because he'd already heard what happened, or because he didn't want to know.

They'd shared an evening several weeks ago, but the connection they used to have felt thin and threadbare. He'd been tender enough—gentler than usual and very conscious of causing her pain—but they hadn't talked. They hadn't really _talked _since before the Slab. Anya had known the Marcus who went to prison—perhaps better than anyone. The man Dom brought out of that hell was still the same sergeant, the same soldier—but only a ghost of the man she'd fallen in love with as a young woman. Marcus had always been quiet, more of a thinker than a talker, but through the war and prison, he'd become almost as tight lipped as a dead man.

_Are you sure he's like this with everyone?_ Dom said he was, but Dom had always been softhearted. Maybe he only said so to protect her from hurt.

"The doctors said getting around will get easier as I gain back my strength. I've really only had the endurance to spend all day up and around for a few months." She'd see improvement, but the doctors had also warned her not to get her hopes up for her recovery. "It's not easy being back on the sidelines," she admitted.

That was putting it mildly. She'd fought so hard to rise to field readiness, and in her thirties no less. Most Gears had gotten used to hearing her voice relay orders over a headset during the war, but she'd always been the messenger, and it took so long for them to trust her to lead them on the battlefield. She'd worked twice as hard to prove herself, and every miniscule achievement had felt Embery-star worthy.

Hoffman had told her one night—sincerely—how proud he was of her efforts. The sentiment had warmed her for days. For a little while, she'd been self-sufficient and leading a full life, post-Marcus Fenix.

"No," Marcus agreed. "It's not easy. For what it's worth, I heard you were really making a name for yourself before it happened."

"Is that why you didn't call, didn't write?" she asked, and in her thoughts she added _'again?' _Before she'd run into him at Bender Fields, she hadn't heard from him in years, and it wasn't the first time. "You still think I do better without you?"

He didn't answer. Seconds of silence dragged out into minutes, and they kept on walking. In the past, she would've let it go, but they weren't in a _'maybe we will, maybe we won't'_ state anymore. They were in a state of _'it's been over for a long time, and now I remember why.'_

"Marcus..." she stopped short, the bite in her tone startling her back into silence. She'd never talked to him like an ex-boyfriend before. There had always been that bare hope of a future together, like a dwindling light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel full of pain, death and monsters.

After they walked on a ways, he finally spoke, the words coming from him slowly, like he considered each and every one, "I know it must be difficult, trying to understand some of the decisions I made regarding us," he said. "A lot of it doesn't even make sense to me now, but at the time, I thought I had good reasons for everything I did."

Anya caught a glimpse of that famous, pale-eyed-Fenix-thousand-yard-stare out of the corner of her eye. A shiver ran through her unexpectedly, and she counted her blessings. She'd been shot in the heat of battle; the bullet had ripped through her, slicing tendon and muscle, and shattering bone. Still, if she'd had to endure it ten times over, she'd never trade her scars for the ones Marcus bore, inside and out. When she fell, she'd had her men around her, fighting for her. In the Slab, Marcus had no one, no hope. Sometimes she wondered how he could've survived it.

"Do you mind?" she asked, motioning to his arm. She'd put on a good show keeping up with him at first, but she was flagging. Her entire side ached, deep and throbbing; she needed to slow down. The ride along a bumpy road had been excruciating. She'd like nothing more than to lie in bed for a few days, but she'd desperately missed the company of her friends. "I get tired at the end of the day, especially after traveling in a vehicle."

After a moment of hesitation, Marcus extended his elbow to her, and she looped her arm through it. He was so big, he hardly seemed to notice when she leaned on him, and his arm felt more like steel than muscle, bone and sinew. Anya remembered simpler times, when Carlos Santiago still lived and he and Marcus used to shoot looks and smiles her way in the mess hall on base, and in the rec facility, and in the weight room. Back then, Marcus's musculature had been part COG training, part young man's pride.

A sound of amusement escaped her, and Marcus raised an eyebrow, asking for her thoughts without asking.

"I was just remembering my first assignment in CIC when I was a cadet," she explained. "There were these two privates who _lived _in the weight room. I swear, for an entire month I thought they were assigned there. Every day when I got off duty, I'd go eat and then go to the gym, and there they were."

Marcus snorted. "You must've been a cadet if you couldn't tell the difference between a private and a corporal."

"Oh, I found out the difference," Anya mused. "Remember the day that jerk was hitting on my friend, Sarah?"

"That jerk's name was Private Brent Garrett, and he wasn't hitting on your friend, Sarah—he was trying to maneuver past her without a wing man."

"And you dropped him for a hundred push-ups in front of the entire gym," she reminded.

Marcus shrugged one shoulder. "Military brats should stick together," he said, sardonic, "and young men do a lot of thinking with their swinging brass."

Is that what they were? A couple military brats who grew up together, and _stuck together _all these years?

"Just young men?" Anya asked. He'd always found her attractive in the past—many men had—but what about now? The scars might be hidden under her clothes, but he was an alpha male at his peak, and she wasn't the same beautiful, young girl from CIC. She had a permanent disability, and she walked like a woman over twice her age.

"No. Not just young men," he admitted, casting a quick glance over her before looking away, onward and forward.

They'd just crested a hill on the main street of the small, coastal settlement. In the distance, to the northwest, the moon slowly inched above the dark blue peaks of the Skala mountain range. It was a beautiful view. Anya could hardly remember seeing the moon and stars so bright. Over the years, some of the debri kicked into the atmosphere by the world-wide hammer of dawn strikes had settled back to earth. Sunsets weren't quite as stunningly colorful as they used to be, but the night sky could actually be seen clearly in some places, some of the time.

The smell of fish and sea salt hung on the air; the empty market place by the water would begin to bustle with trade and the catch of the day in just a few short hours, long before dawn. Seafood eateries and pubs lined the dark streets, and they were all packed with people. Already, there were ships easing into the harbor by moonlight, their bells ringing rhythmically across the still water while they followed the safe, center channel into port.

Lots of trade came through this town. There was a naval base a few more miles up the coast, so plenty of COG Navy plied their business, even on a weeknight.

In spite of all that had come and gone between them, it still felt right to be there with Marcus, walking down a cobbled street lined by smooth-trunked palm trees; even though they still struggled to find a wavelength they could share.

Anya shivered against the cool air coming in from the sea. This was a coastal town, and that meant fish inundated her senses. When they passed a dumpster, she caught a particularly strong whiff of sour, rotting fish meat and her stomach rolled, bile threatening to jump up into the back of her throat. Anya risked limping along with only Marcus for support, covering her mouth with her cane hand to fortify against the sudden urge to throw up, breathing shallowly through her mouth and trying not to gag.

"Don't remember you having a weak stomach," Marcus observed. He moved to take hold of her bicep, helping her move forward faster.

"It's been a long day," Anya said, the urge to puke making a slow retreat with the offending dumpster squarely at their six. "I'm over-tired, hungry, dehydrated and I have one hell of a headache."

"Hmm. Thought maybe the pills in your bag might have something to do with it."

The pills in her bag? "You saw my Vicodin?" she asked, surprised. Had he seen it in passing, during one of their pit-stops on the trip when she'd dug through her bag, or had he snooped through her bag?

Marcus gave her an '_I'm waiting' _look out of the corner of his eye.

"Did you count them?" she asked. "I have a prescription for five doses and they're all there. I'm not hooked on pain killers, if that's what you're asking."

It would be nearly impossible to get hooked on pain killers. There simply weren't enough to go around. It wasn't like alcohol—any Joe Blow could set up a still—pain killers had to be manufactured, and if there was a black market, Anya didn't know the first thing about it.

Entirely nonplussed, Marcus simply shrugged, as if he'd expected her answer, allowing her to stew in silence. It was so typical for him to say something like that, and then drop it just as quickly. The difference was nothing he'd said had ever gotten under her skin in the past.

Not that she would ever let him know it.

"So, tell me what you think of her?" Anya asked, the same way an LT would strike up conversation with an NCO about a new private in his squad.

Marcus blinked at the sudden change of subject, momentarily unable to figure out who she meant. "Of Ferria?" he asked, confused.

"I knew her father," Anya explained. "He wasn't quite as high speed as my mother, but they went to the academy together. My mother always valued his friendship."

The gears started to turn behind Marcus's eyes. He took on a faraway look, no doubt trying to place Major Justin Ferria and no doubt failing. Helena Stroud had served under Adam Fenix, and Anya had grown up seeing Marcus at military functions and social functions.

"Not everyone ran in the same social circle as the Fenix and Stroud families," Anya reminded, taking for granted her ability to follow his thought pattern without a word between them. "Not every officer's life revolved around the military. My mother used to tell Justin that he'd make more headway if he'd do more to show his commitment to the COG."

Marcus's mouth tightened, just a fraction. "Let me guess," he said. "She was trying to tell him if he wanted that next promotion, he needed to spend less time with his family."

Anya nodded. "Yes. I remember Major Ferria. He loved children. He always had a treat for me. He always had time to really _talk _to me when I was young. I never really got to know his children, but I felt like I knew them from his stories. He had a very warm, kind presence."

"Sounds like you had a crush on him," Marcus noted, less than enthusiastic. All day long, she'd noticed these chinks in his armor where genuine, real personality leaked through.

"Oh, I did," Anya admitted, with a smile, fondly remembering the excitement, the thrill she always got when her mother's former school mate would visit. "He was very tall and handsome and I didn't get to see him much as I got older, so he grew on me."

"I don't remember seeing him at your mother's funeral," Marcus pointed out, his dark brow furrowing with trying to remember. Knowing Marcus, he could probably recite a good deal of the guest list to this day. Anya wouldn't put it past him.

"He was caught up in the fallout after Aspho with the 10th Infantry. He couldn't get back. And, he and my mother had a falling out in my early teens, when she sent me off to yet another boarding school. He watched me grow up, and I guess with his own kids growing up, he felt he had a stake in my life. He argued with her for me—he asked Helena to keep me close while she still could, before I went off and started a life on my own."

"How did that go over?" Marcus asked, but his tone was rhetorical. He'd served under Helena Stroud. He should've had a pretty good idea how unsolicited parenting advice would go over with her.

"About like you'd expect," Anya confirmed. "She told him where to shove it—and she told him never to talk to me again. I think she always meant to repair the damage one day, but time got away from her. He did call me, after the funeral. Before I heard from him, it didn't occur to me to reach out to him, let him know I wanted him to come, even if he couldn't make it."

She still remembered that phone call like it was yesterday. Major Ferria called to extend his condolences, and in spite of years of banishment, he'd heaped praise on her mother. But, then again, didn't everyone? It was easy to love someone after they were gone.

He said Helena was one of his best and oldest friends. He told Anya not to hesitate to call if she ever needed anything, and she knew he really meant it, but the easy familiarity she'd had with the man as a young girl had dissipated. She'd been going through so much—starting her career with the COG, losing her mother, exploring a budding relationship with Marcus.

She'd felt so much pressure to be strong through everything, and more than anything she'd wanted to break down on the phone, sob her eyes out and finally tell Justin she'd always wished she'd had a father like him. But she hadn't. She'd done the Stroud line proud with dry eyes and a steady voice. In hindsight, she wished she'd taken the opportunity to break down. No one would've blamed her then, and in the years since she'd had few opportunities for weak moments.

"If I ever had a child, I'd never send her away," Anya opined softly. It was the sort of thing she could say so easily, because she had no fear of ever having children. She'd never have a daughter, never have to survive it when the father of her child walked away, and she'd never be a hypocrite. "I'd never let her out of my sight."

"That why you're asking about Chelsea Ferria?" Marcus asked, passing right over her last comment. "You feel responsible for her because you knew her dad before E-Day?"

_More than you'll ever know, _Anya thought, but she realized Marcus had just voiced aloud something she'd only felt subconsciously. She had this image in her mind of Justin Ferria's children, and the perfect, loving little family unit they'd had. The sort of family Anya always wanted as a child, and still craved as an adult. The sort of family she'd never have.

"I don't have any roots, Marcus," Anya said, cringing when she heard the pain in her own voice. Maybe Marcus's tightly controlled continence wasn't the only one slipping with age. "So maybe—maybe I'm just clinging to what little I've got."

After a few more moments of shuffling along in silence, they reached the bar where Dom's party was in full swing. They couldn't see inside, because all the windows of the place were boarded up. Unlike many of the other food places they'd passed, this one had the distinct smell of a charcoal grill wafting out as the front door swung open and shut, allowing customers to enter and leave. The delicious smell of cooking beef tempted Anya's stomach, in spite of her fading queasiness and pounding headache. She hadn't eaten since early in the morning, and the smokiness of the grill touched something primal in her.

She hadn't met a vegetarian in years, but even before E-Day, all the way back to her days in boot camp, Anya had wondered if even the most devout vegetarians were tested by the smell of fresh meat cooking over an open fire when really, truly hungry. Anya had always envisioned pre-historic man developing a sensitive nose for that woody, rich scent over the course of thousands of years. After all, that smell meant life, survival. Only men cooked their kill.

"I'd kill for one of Bernie's deer steaks right about now," she admitted, her belly rumbling in agreement, the promise of food made her feel lighter, and made her realize how empty she felt inside. She'd forgotten how easy it was to miss a meal out in the field.

"If they've got em', I'll buy you a real steak when we get inside." Marcus paused outside the door, and seemed to pull her in a bit, and around to face him. "I'd feel the same way," he told her, grimacing like it was difficult for him to say it.

"About what?" she asked, puzzled. Her thoughts had wandered out onto wild savannahs hundreds of years ago. She hadn't actually expected a response from him on any of the topics they'd been discussing. Typically he'd dodge questions entirely.

He half shrugged. "If I ever had a son, I'd never consider sending him away."

His candidness left her speechless. Although her lips parted slightly, words evaded her. She could see it in his eyes—he really meant it. He couldn't hold her gaze, and Marcus just didn't say things like that. Not when they were together on and off for over a decade before the Slab, and definitely not since.

"Come on," he said, giving her arm a squeeze and guiding her to the doorway, "they're expecting us."

* * *

"Let me get this straight, Marcus," Dom said when he finally stopped laughing. He'd had a few, and things he wouldn't normally find funny were freaking hilarious. "I handed you my knife—my _Commando _knife—to use as a crowbar, and then somehow I didn't notice you kept it, even though I've carried this knife on me night and day since I was seventeen years old. And then you used it to kill the Locust Queen?"

Marcus didn't find it nearly so amusing. Then again, Marcus had hardly touched the beer in front of him all evening. "That pretty much sums it up," he said, taking a short sip.

Cole shook his head, "That's messed up, baby. I gotta be honest, boss man. I don't like to think about dealing with you without Santiago around."

Marcus quirked one eyebrow. "So you can get along with Dom as your squad leader without me around, but you can't get along with me without Dom around?"

For a long moment, Cole just blinked at Marcus, perhaps too drunk to make sense of what he'd just said.

Finally, Cole just chuckled, his deep voice falling into an impossibly low register. "Baby, let me ask you this: Would you want to deal with Baird without _me _around? Santiago's your better half, and there ain't nothing wrong with that."

"I am your better half, Marcus," Dom said, grinning like an idiot. "And it's 'cause I'm adorable."

"You know, when I look in the mirror every morning, I think to myself, _'Damn, why can't I be hot like Dom?'_ Brings a friggin' tear to my eye."

"Damn right it does," Dom smiled, taking a long swig from his beer. He'd missed this—bantering with his squad mates, with his former roommates. He'd missed the Marcus who'd return fire.

The three of them sat together at a table with Erek Karver and Daniel and Clay Carmine. Anya had risen a few minutes ago to order something non-alcoholic from the bar. She'd already shared dinner and a beer with them. Marcus had bought a meal for everyone, on Bender Field's dime. A perk of doing business.

"Man, you've gotta lay off whatever you're smoking before bed. That is one messed up dream. For one thing, I would never casually hand this to anyone," Dom said, taking the sheathed knife off his belt and putting it on the tabletop. "I love you, man, but I know you. You'd break the blade."

"Probably so," Marcus agreed, his cool blue eyes wandering over to the bar, where Anya was leaning against the bar and getting talked up by Solice. The young Islander actually had dimples when he smiled, and while talking to Anya, he smiled a lot.

Dom glanced over at Marcus, heaved a disapproving sigh, and just shook his head. "For once, why can't you be a normal guy and just go over there? Put an arm around her waist, tell Solice to have a good night, and take your woman back to her room?"

"You think that's what she wants?" Marcus asked, his light blue eyes trained on Anya, even over his beer while he sipped it.

Dom threw up his arms in exasperation. "Why don't you quit being a pussy and find out!"

"You know what I regret the most about not knowing Charlie was a girl?" Karver asked, completely ignoring their side conversation.

The Viking-esk former Gear kicked back in his chair with beer in hand and two booted feet up on the edge of the table. The man had divested of his armor, coming out to drink at the bar in civilian clothes—a pair of faded old jeans with rips in the knees and a light gray PT sweatshirt so large it actually hung on him. His blond hair was tied back with a single band at the back of his head.

"I regret not banging her," Clay volunteered, the conversation barely snagging his attention away from the barmaid making eyes at him from behind the bar while she arranged their table's next round of drinks on a round tray.

Dom hadn't ever met a man who could talk about banging another woman while in the process of wooing a different woman and not even catch a nasty sideways look.

Karver just shook his head, taking a draw from his glass. "No. I regret all the sleep I lost worrying about Tina chasing after Charlie like a dog in heat. "

Daniel Carmine snorted contemptuously, restlessly flipping a pen around his thumb over and over again. Earlier he'd been talking with Karver, making a list of supplies to restock. Just looking at him, Dom could tell Daniel was the sort of man who couldn't stand to sit still, unproductive. "Ah, hell, Erek. You were the only one worried about Charlie sleeping with Tina. You know, even if Chuck hadn't turned out to be a chick, Tina could've done a hell of a lot worse. She could've bunked with Clay, for one."

Dom noted Daniel Carmine didn't miss a chance to bash his younger brother, and Clay couldn't seem to care less. He just continued on with the very same behavior that brought him ridicule.

"I know that," Karver continued. "Damn, I've got a gold mine in that kid. I was impressed by Charlie today before I knew she was a girl. A battle-ready, COG trained driver who can chase down fugitives? I didn't even know she had a medical background. Shit, I'm going to have to bump her pay."

"Don't you think she'll go back to Fort Collier with Baird?" Dom asked. He knew if he'd found Maria today, there was no way in hell she'd be going anywhere else.

Karver shook his head. "I sure hope not, brother. It'll put me out of business. If she's got to go, I understand, but I need my driver until I find a new one. I've been good to the kid, and I hope she'll remember that."

"Baird's not going to like that," Marcus pointed out, glancing over at Cole for a confirmation. "Am I right?"

Cole shrugged one shoulder. "Don't think he'd mind her working, but he ain't going to be too fond of who she's working with," he said, tilting his glass to indicate Clay.

"If he can keep her happy in the sack, what's he got to worry about?" Clay asked and, even five beers past drunk, Dom could tell the boy was trying a little too hard to seem absolutely transfixed by the girl approaching their table.

Daniel Carmine rolled his eyes at his brother. "I'm starting to admire Chuck more and more for giving you the cold shoulder, Clayton."

"She was warming up to me," Clay said, crossing his arms over his chest and closing off from them.

"Not as much as she's warming up Baird right now," Marcus countered, just as their drinks arrived. Clay's attitude must've been wearing on his nerves, because it was an unusually trite comment for Marcus to make. Usually he minded his own business when it came to this sort of thing.

The waitress who brought out their drinks was a pretty little thing, with golden curls and bright blue eyes rimmed with charcoal, a warm tan and a white smile. She giggled a lot and batted her eyes often, tip-toeing a fine line between alluring and coy in her high heels—and earning herself some good tips doing it. She wore a short black dress with a low-cut lacy vee-neck framing ample cleavage. Dom was pretty sure a quarter would've bounced off the girl's mid-section.

She wasn't quite the stereotypical cheerleader type, but she was close. Back in normal times, she might've been a dancer or a volleyball player.

"Here you go, boys," she said, the smile ringing in her voice, like leaning suggestively over their table and setting beer mugs in front of each of them from a tray supported on her left hand was the most fun she'd had all day. She had the low, smooth voice of a twenty-plus-year-old, but Dom suspected that might be related to the extra strong reek of tobacco smoke hanging around her. She didn't look a day over sixteen. She had a youthful glow about her, a bit of nativity mixed with abundant, almost predatory, sexual energy.

Clay hadn't changed much from the last time Dom had seen him. With a chesty, flirty girl in range, he came alive; light brown eyes sparkling, he leaned forward in his seat, making a show of arranging those beefy arms front and center, leaning one elbow casually on his knee and setting the other on the tabletop. Dom had decent biceps, but Clay put every guy in the bar to shame with a casual, rolling flex, drawing the waitress's attention to _his_ ample assets.

Anthony and Ben Carmine had both been decent looking kids, but neither had the confidence about them to bring women flocking to them. Dom could see some resemblance in Clay's features—the brown eyes and brown hair, the olive complexion and the strong jawline and high cheekbones. Beyond that, the similarity ended. Clay was a mountain, a fully mature COG soldier who grew up on full feed, unlike his younger brothers. His voice was deeper and he had the sort of confidence and presence that could hold a bar full of women spellbound.

Marcus bumped Dom with an elbow. "See him preen?" he asked under his breath.

Dom chuckled, sipping the new mug of ice-cold beer. "You're damn lucky he isn't putting the moves on Anya. He's prettier than you, and he's more charming."

"He's more charming than me?" Marcus raised one skeptical eyebrow, like it couldn't possibly be. Dom wasn't quite sure if the comment was supposed to be funny or not. Typically Marcus was painfully aware of his lack of people skills.

"What's your name, baby?" Clay asked when the girl leaned close to set his beer down on the tabletop—closer than she'd gotten to any of the rest of them, her reach allowing her to brush up close to him. If Baird had been there drinking with them, he would've told Carmine and the girl to quit eye-fucking and get a room.

"Mindy. What's yours, Stud?" she asked, a playful smile shaping her pretty, pink mouth.

"Is your last name Jailbait? Because I think Clayton's bumped into a couple dozen of your sisters," Daniel informed Mindy.

Mindy entirely ignored the comment, entranced by Clay flexing his bicep. He flexed languidly for her, the long muscle clearly visible beneath his skin contracting into a rock hard softball-shape. She giggled as she felt his arm with one of her small hands, and then she leaned down and whispered something in his ear.

"You sure you don't want to wait until you're off shift?" Clay asked, business-like and not even bothering to keep his voice down. "I take longer than a fifteen minute break."

The girl whispered something else and then straightened up and walked off, shooting him a playful wink over her shoulder before she disappeared behind the bar and through the swinging doors into the back of the establishment.

Clay shotgunned his beer in four long gulps. The table creaked ominously when he leaned on it with one hand, getting to his feet and stretching tall, reaching high above his head, grabbing one of his wrists with the opposite hand. It was a nine-foot ceiling and up on his tip-toes, Clay's knuckles touched the bar's rafters.

"Don't wait up for me," he said with a wicked smile, giving the entire table a wink in farewell.

"Make damn sure you use protection!" Daniel called after him. "I don't want to catch something nasty the next time I sit on the same toilet seat as you."

Karver glanced over his shoulder at his enforcer's retreating backside, tilting dangerously close to the point of tipping over backward in his chair. "That was pretty aggressive work, even for him," Karver commented wryly.

Daniel waved it off. "Ah, he's throwing a tantrum," he explained to the rest of them. "Clayton doesn't take rejection well."

Marcus glanced over at Cole. "Could you have picked her up that fast?"

Cole gave him a look like he was crazy. "If she's too young to recognize the Cole Train, then she's too young for the Cole Train. Besides, this is Sarge's night," Gus reminded them, slapping Dom on the back and raising his glass, and the rest of them all responded in kind, Karver's chair falling back down onto all four legs to join his beer into their toast. "To Santiago's stripes. It was a rough first day, but you got this, baby."

The others echoed the sentiment, and Dom felt humbled under their praise. He'd been lucky they'd all made it back alive today. Innately he knew it would be much worse losing a man from his squad as a sergeant, and he knew someday he'd have to face that eventuality—assuming death didn't take him first.

They all drank, and when Dom looked up, he saw, Baird and Chelsea sweep in the door, Chelsea on Baird's arm and both of them showered, clean and—thankfully—fully clothed. They leaned into each other just a bit when they walked, and they both looked tired. Dom hadn't honestly expected to see them come out.

He'd lost track of how many beers Cole had placed in front of him that evening, but every once in a while it still flitted across his brain just how weird it was that Chelsea and Baird were a couple now, out of the blue. How had he missed their attraction before? Did they purposely hide it from him? If so, why?

Cole perked up a bit as the pair approached. A big, white-toothed grin spread across the thrashball player's face.

"Hey, Baird. Any progress to report back to Boomer Lady on that blond grandbaby?"

Chelsea's cheeks blushed deep red, and she turned into Damon's side, embarrassed, letting him hold her close under his arm.

"Tell Mataki to keep dreaming," Baird said, giving Chelsea a squeeze against his side. "I always said she should bet on you, Gus."

"Aw, come on, baby. The Cole Train needs some nieces and nephews to spoil," Cole teased.

Kicking back the dregs of his beer, Dom covered a smile at the thought of Baird attempting to rear children—especially his own children.

"You'll have to child-proof all your tool boxes," Dom predicted. "And then when they figure that out, you'll be screwed—no pun intended."

"God help us all," Marcus intoned.

Baird gave them his classic eye roll, but it was just for show. For once he remained aloof from their teasing instead of diving in, hook, sinker and all. He was relaxed with his girl next to him. More relaxed than Dom had ever seen him. Hell, maybe the guy really did just need to get laid. A new relationship, a new start.

Dom felt a pang, remembering how it had felt to have Maria in his life, back when they were a strong, vibrant family. Just her presence—that feeling of knowing she'd always be there to offer advice and comfort. She'd made him strong; at times, he'd felt like he could've lifted the moon and stars for her.

Karver grabbed a chair from a nearby table, and placed it next to him. "Have a seat, honey," he instructed Chelsea, giving the chair a pat. "We're gonna talk about your job."

With a sigh, Chelsea reluctantly took a seat, worrying her already chapped and ragged lower lip with her teeth. "I'm sorry I lied to you for so long," she said, nervous but composed, almost curling up into herself in the chair with her knees pulled into her chest and her arms hugging them. Baird stood directly behind her chair, one protective hand firm on her shoulder. For the moment he was letting her talk with her boss uninterrupted, but Dom could see the wheels turning behind those blue-green eyes.

_He's growing up right before our eyes. _Dom actually felt a bit of sardonic pride.

"Didn't you think you could tell me?" Karver asked, and Dom recognized his tone as a father's voice. This man had a teenage daughter, and he talked to Chelsea the same way he probably spoke with her, if in a less familiar way.

Chelsea squirmed under his scrutiny, wringing her hands and working that lip. "I was working up to it. Clay knew for a couple months, and he said it would be okay. I was afraid I'd get fired for lying in the first place, and part of me felt it was safer to live as Charlie as long as I could get away with it."

A deep furrow worked its way into the center of Karver's forehead. He was a good man. None of this struck him as funny, and he showed concern instead of anger. "I guess I can understand that. Lord knows I wish Tina would be more careful, but I wish you would've told us. We could've protected you."

"Even from our own?" Daniel asked his boss. "Fitz isn't crazy enough to mess with Tina, but he disliked Charlie from the beginning and that boy's got a screw loose, Erek. I don't blame her a bit for keeping her mouth shut."

"Yeah, maybe," Karver admitted, nodding in absent agreement with Daniel's logic. "Regardless, that's water under the bridge. I know you're looking to ride off into the sunset with your price charming there..."

Dom exchanged a bemused glance with both Marcus and Cole.

"...But I still need a driver until I can find a replacement. I'll find someone as quick as I can, but finding skilled work is spotty these days."

"No fucking way," Baird blurted at last, contemptuous. "I lost her for a year and I didn't know if she was alive or dead. She's coming back to Fort Collier with me tomorrow."

"Damon," Chelsea said softly, covering his fingers on her shoulder with one of her small hands and looking up at him with tired eyes. "I can't just abandon them. They're my team and they're living job to job."

Baird's grip on Chelsea's shoulder tightened in a protective gesture, and he stepped closer to her, standing tall behind her like a dark, roiling storm cloud. "I didn't see you or your boys getting in line to spring her from jail. I did that. I'm responsible for her and she's always going to be safer with me than out on the road with a bunch of guys thinking with their junks."

Karver nodded, making calming gestures with both hands. "All right. I get you, man, I really do. My wife got sick and died years ago. If I'd thought she was gone all this time and then found her again, I'd feel the same way. The bottom line is this young woman is a member of my team, and I owe it to her to give her the choice, the same way I would any of my guys. As far as I'm concerned, she's got a job with me as long as she wants it."

"Ever had much luck guilt-tripping a guy into remaining your employee?" Baird spat, and then he jerked a thumb at Daniel Carmine. "He just said she wouldn't be safe with your crew. If you've got a guy with a grudge against her on your payroll, what do you think is going to happen when he finds out she's a woman?"

"That's not a problem," Karver reassured, leaning forward and speaking earnestly. Dom could already tell Erek Karver was a way better manager than Richtner could ever dream of being. "Good drivers are hard to find, but I can't spit without hitting muscle for hire. If she doesn't feel safe with Fitz around, I'll fire him tonight. From what I hear, you can handle yourself. If you want it, the job's yours. You can be right there with her."

"Baird comes with excellent references from two former Sergeants," Dom held up two fingers, and he cracked up when Baird gave him the evil eye.

"Bite me, Dom," Baird growled through clenched teeth. So much for relaxing after getting laid.

"Wait a minute," Daniel said, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair, his interest in the conversation suddenly revived. "Just like that, she can make Fitz go away? I've been trying to make Fitz go away for eighteen months. You know, I almost shot him today."

"We've been trying to pawn off Baird a lot longer than that," Marcus informed him.

"Stop, please, just stop," Chelsea finally said, putting up her hands like she was getting between a couple guys about to get into a fight—and who knew, maybe she was. "I don't know what I want to do, but no more fighting today. We're just...we're all lucky to be alive right now."

Karver's nostrils flared as he took in a big breath, and then let it out. "You're right, kid," he said, reaching out to pat Chelsea on the knee. "We'll sleep on it tonight. We're in town until the day after tomorrow anyway. Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky and find someone tomorrow. A temp, at least."

Baird looked like he had something more to add, but before he could respond, a high-pitched scream cut through the din of the bar.

The back door had been propped open to increase airflow through the bar on a warm evening, and the scream had come from outside, and pulled their attention in that direction.

Mindy the waitress ran inside. The golden curls had lost some sleekness, replaced by disarray and frizz. Her cheeks were both red and ashen gray at the same time, like she'd run some distance very quickly while scared for her life. Black eye make-up streaked her face in a terrifying mask. Her clothes were disheveled and torn, she was missing one shoe, her blue eyes were wide and her chest was heaving.

"They took him!" she screamed, clearly shell shocked.

Before the rest of them could process her words, Daniel Carmine came to his feet, one hand automatically coming to rest on the pistol at his hip, the other checking the extra clip attached to his belt. He seemed to age ten years right before them; mouth tightening, laugh lines deepening into something much darker, much more inevitable.

For the first time, Dom noticed he had a kindred spirit in Daniel Carmine. The man had his own Commando blade clipped to his belt. Dom wondered if he'd earned it, or reclaimed it from some sorry soldier too dead to need it anymore.

Karver rose the same moment Marcus did.

"You don't know what's out there," Marcus said, even though it was clearly too late. Determination was already etched in Daniel's swarthy face, and in his dark brown eyes. "Give us a minute to regroup. We'll go together."

Daniel had the disposition of a Commando: all business. Even when the shit hit the fan, even when it was personal, cucumbers envied him.

"No offense, Fenix, but you've already watched two of my brothers die," Daniel said coolly, sliding his handgun from its holster and chambering a round before starting for the back door.


	41. Part 2: Chapter 10

_AN: I know it's been a long time. I spent a lot of time on this chapter (again) and I had to try to get it right. Thanks a lot to everyone who's still reading this. I hope you enjoy the chapter and I'm looking forward to hearing back from you. At the very least let me know what you thought of Judgement. My biggest Gears pet peeve is the concept of an LT leading around a squad of four. That's a sergeant's job. They don't pay for officers to go to college so they can lead around one dinky little squad, they're supposed to be part of the bigger picture. Baird should've obtained the rank of sergeant and then been demoted from there. But that aside, I thought the game was pretty good outside of a few plot holes. MP's been pretty fun, but have some opinions on that too. I definitely like being COG all the time, no more DBNO t-bagging and I like the faster pace of the game with the instant respawn. Glad they finally got the Lancer/Gnasher loadout in there._

* * *

With her coworkers surrounding her, directing her to a chair and giving her shoulders comforting pats, the hysterical waitress, Mindy, choked on her sobs, her face turning red and torrents of tears making her cheeks glisten in the low lighting. She clutched at a handkerchief someone had handed her with trembling hands.

"They were pirates. He tried to protect me, but there were too many of them! They had guns and a net and they took him!"

Baird could already tell it was going to be one of those nights; soon he'd be running around pitch black streets without enough firepower, chasing after some kidnapped asshole and all the while wishing he could just crawl in bed for a year or two.

Anya quickly went into motion, moving toward the girl. For once, the cane actually became an asset, because as soon as Anya got in reach, the girl collapsed into her, sobbing her pretty guts out with Anya struggling to hold her up with one arm around the girl, shushing and making comforting noises. For everything, there was a time and place—even for gimping along like a grandma...in a bar...on a weeknight.

Per the usual, Marcus didn't waste any time getting the band back together. That winter-blue stare rose slowly from the tabletop in front of him, and for the first time in as long as Baird could remember, Fenix actually did something new.

"You armed, Baird?" Marcus asked, looking to Damon first. Not Santiago.

_Roll out the party wagon, you're officially second choice._

He'd finally come in ahead of Dom, and Cole—granted, the other two men were three sheets to the wind, but who was counting?

"You know, it's ironic," Baird laid the sarcasm on thick. "I seriously considered bringing my Lancer with me to the bar, but then I thought, 'Nope, that's a terrible idea. If I bring it, I'll have a couple drinks, and then I'll end up shooting Clay Carmine in the head.' But, what do you know? It turns out we need to go rescue the son of a bitch." He sounded like he was kidding, but he wasn't. "Why me?" he asked, but he already knew, even before Marcus smacked him on the shoulder in passing.

"Congratulations. You're sober. Solice—get over here. If you can say the alphabet backward, you're coming with us."

"You do know I'm a civilian contractor now, right?" Damon reminded him. "In theory, you're not allowed to pull me into these stupid missions anymore."

"It's your own fault. Next time, get drunk before you get laid."

"Seriously?" Baird asked, exasperated. "Come on, man. I know you don't see much action, but have you ever tried working out immediately after sex? I'm about to pass out here." Not only was he physically impaired and tired, he had a really hard time focusing on anything other than what he'd been doing twenty minutes ago. Anya's clothes hung on Chelsea, and he still couldn't keep his mind on business because he knew the body underneath, and he kept imagining her naked.

"Fenix," Karver said, snagging Marcus's elbow when he passed by. "Take the girl with you," he said, those Viking blue eyes indicating Chelsea. "I'm not in any shape to help and Lord knows I should be, because that's my man out there, but we've got her trained up to chase bounties. She's steady when things get rough."

Baird had a rather unique experience when Karver said those words. His stomach dropped, like he'd just gone through a loop on a roller coaster full tilt and ass backwards, at the thought of Chelsea out there, getting shot at—even if she did remain by his side at all times. Suddenly his mouth went cotton dry and his heart felt painfully too big for his chest. It took a good second or two before he started to pull back from that edge and the fear eased off, leaving him just a tad shaky and not thrilled by the thought of ever feeling like that again.

What the hell was that, anyway? With a bunch of pirates running around, it would be better to have her close. Right? Right?

For a moment, Marcus appeared dubious, his jaw drawing tight and features darkening. For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. "Fine," he spat after a second of deliberation, his features darkening. "Baird, you're responsible for her." With that, Marcus stalked over to collect Solice, doing that irritated shoulder-roll he did sometimes when walking away from problems he didn't want to deal with. "Get your shit together. We're out the door in five seconds."

Chelsea sighed deep, pushing her rough-shorn hair from her eyes like it bothered her. "I guess he isn't over the getting Dom hurt thing, huh?" She rocked back and forth, fidgety and impatient and clearly anxious to go save her buddy, Clay.

Sure, he'd bailed her out of jail, but what if she'd wanted it to be Clay? What if she chose to stick with Karver's crew and it wasn't just because she felt obligated to serve her two week notice?

Damon consciously quashed a stab of jealousy before it could rear its ugly head. She hadn't gone wild cowgirl on Clay's lap that evening. And no one had twisted her arm to do an encore, either.

"I really don't care enough to speculate," Baird replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fenix isn't quantifiable, and I figured out a long time ago it just hurts my head to try."

He managed to pull a smile out of her, albeit small and tired, and she reached up to give his hair an affectionate rub.

"You know I love that brain," she said.

Anya made it over to them, clearly moving faster than she felt comfortable with. Every elongated step made a grimace appear on her face. At some point along the way she'd thrown her hair up into a messy ponytail and even the random bits of hair escaping from the band managed to frame her face in a way that made her look absolutely beautiful.

Baird had never liked that about her; the perfect look that never faltered. It made her seem inhuman. Maybe if Marcus would get off his duff, Anya wouldn't have so much time to spend on her dumb, perfect hair.

"I got the girl to give me a general direction," Anya told them. "They're dragging men down toward the water front—conscripting them aboard ship. He might still be alive."

Baird looked up to pass on the briefing to Marcus, but by then the man had returned from the bar with Solice, hardly pausing in passing. Marcus took long, measured strides toward the door—covering ground quickly without letting them see him sweat, a true sergeant through and through. "Then that's where we're headed. Baird, Solice, let's go."

Dom banged his fist down on the table, clearly distraught at being left behind. "This isn't right! You guys shouldn't have to go without us."

Karver dragged a hand over his face and raised his beer. "Amen to that," he said, looking positively miserable.

Marcus smacked Dom on the shoulder in passing. "Tell you what, next time Camine gets Shanghaied while he's giving a waitress her tip, it's all you guys. Until then, do me a favor and stick together," Marcus instructed both Cole and Santiago.

"Uh, yeah. You can count on us, boss man," Cole assured him, saluting Fenix with the remainder of his beer. Clearly, Cole intended to refrain from getting excited about rescuing Carmine sans pants.

Baird didn't blame him. He wasn't thrilled by the idea of rescuing _any_ half-dressed man, nevertheless Clayton Carmine.

The four of them walked out the front door of the bar, with Fenix leading the way.

"Wait," Anya called after them. "I should come with you!"

"No time," Marcus shot back, and he sounded really broken up about it...or not.

With Chelsea by his side, Baird stepped off the wooden step outside the bar and onto the pot-hole ridden main street.

Things hadn't entirely gone to hell in a hand-basket yet, but grandma was definitely packing a picnic lunch and sending them on their way.

Out of all of them, Solice had the most firepower riding along with him. He'd brought along his lancer and he still wore his COG issue boots, if not full plate armor. Checking his rifle and keeping the muzzle pointed at the ground and off to the left, the kid paused when Marcus did to take in the scene, coming up on the former sergeant's left flank.

"Eh, brah," Solice said, flicking off the safety on his Lancer with an ease yielded from years of practice. "Is it just me, or does this look more like a movie than a raid?"

"Someone's definitely trying to get our attention," Marcus replied, his voice dead even and his stance equally still. His head turned like a robot, eyes seeking data from the environment from left to right.

Baird stepped up on Marcus's right, getting his own take on the situation.

This part of the coastline was mountainous. The entire town formed a half-moon circle around the docks, with the streets sloped down toward the water at an eighteen percent grade or better. Without any tall buildings to block the view, they could see everything laid out below them. Businesses and houses with flat roofs stepped down toward the water like building blocks with streets winding between them down toward the wharf, traveling sideways instead of straight down like mountain roads.

There were vehicles and carts on fire in the streets, leaving a trail of destruction all the way from the docks to the town square. Instead of slipping in under cover of darkness and utilizing the element of surprise to maximize the productivity of their raid of the town's people and supplies, the pirates had left a path of mayhem—a path clearly meant to be followed.

"Baird," Marcus said. "Go back inside—stay with Anya."

"What the hell makes you think I'm going to do that?" Baird asked, and it came out like his typical rhetorical and entirely sarcastic come-back, but he genuinely wanted to know.

"Because I said so," Marcus said tiredly, not even looking over at him.

"Oh, because you said so," Baird nodded sagely, like it made sense. "What can I possibly say in the face of such a well-rounded argument? You can't give me half-assed orders anymore, and I most definitely don't have to follow them!"

"It's not safe for you! Can't you see that?" Marcus finally turned, teeth clenched and every muscle strung tight. He was angry, frustrated. He didn't have his wing man or his woman by his side, he didn't have a sergeant's stripes or the armor or the firepower he used to have at his disposal and it was all starting to tell on him. "This is a message! They want us to follow them into a trap, just like earlier today. As far as I can figure, your brain is the big ticket item they're gunning for. I don't know why, but they want you."

"So, what exactly are you going to do Marcus?" Baird shot back. "You're good, but not even Marcus Fenix can take on a ship full of Stranded pirates with one half-drunk private and a girl who weighs a buck thirty in her boots. You've got three side-arms, a shotgun and one rifle between the three of you. If they're hunting us, I really doubt they're going to conveniently charge us in small groups and let us kill them at close range. These are people we're fighting, not grubs."

"Daniel Carmine's out there. We'll join up with him and we'll work out a plan as we go."

"You know what, Fenix? I have a better plan. Since we know they're waiting for us down there, how about the three of us hang back to cover you and you can go out there all by yourself and get your ass shot?"

"You should take me with you," Anya cut in. "I'm an officer of the COG. I have more weight to bargain with for Clayton's release."

Marcus's lip curled back in a snarl. "We don't have time for this! We need to go now!"

"I'm not going to let you run in without a plan and get my wife killed!" Baird shouted back, right in Fenix's face. The man had two inches and some bulk on Baird, but tonight it didn't matter. Baird would've loved to take a swing at Marcus, and apparently his fists knew it before he did, because they'd already clenched into loose fists at his sides. "Either I'm going with you, or she isn't. Pick one!"

"Do me a favor, Baird. Go get captured if that's the mood you're in, but don't fucking throw the sanctity of your union in my face until after you've been together at least twenty-six hours," Marcus snapped, his face turning red.

Baird felt his insides catch fire, and he was about to rip Fenix from ear to rear when Anya stepped up beside Chelsea, and the two women said, in perfect stereo, "We don't have time for this!"

The resemblance hit him with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball and his rant fell on its face before it ever got started. There were four inches separating the women in height and probably a decade in age, but there were several commonalities. Both kept blonde hair back off their faces, both had deep blue eyes and broad shoulders for women, although Chelsea was a hell of a lot skinnier at the moment. Their voices were dead even—same rhythm of speech at a slightly different pitch. They wore identical expressions of consternation; exaggerated wide eyes and forceful words driven by frustration and anger at wasting precious seconds.

Baird and Chelsea had taken the plunge Marcus and Anya never did. Santiago had taken the time to explain to Baird on more than one occasion, in grueling detail and without solicitation, how painful the Fenix-Stroud pairing had been over the decades. Maybe Marcus saw Chelsea and Baird's relationship as a too-close-for-comfort remake of his own—except they'd taken the path not traveled in the original feature.

"It's not going to be a rescue mission if we wait any longer. It's going to be a funeral or worse. Let's go!" Chelsea demanded, starting forward with long, hurried strides, heading down to the docks with or without them.

Fenix didn't bother to retort and didn't even turn to address Anya. He faced forward and walked away, expecting to leave her there. Baird and Solice had to start jogging to keep up with Marcus's pace, the three of them quickly catching up with Chelsea.

"Solice, take point. Baird, keep an eye on our six," Marcus ordered, like nothing had changed over the past few years and he still ran the show.

Why not? They were letting him get away with it. Baird hadn't even protested much. He had a lot on his mind at the moment and it was too easy to just fall in while his brain whirled. But maybe he should've railed more against taking Chelsea out with them. At first he'd thought he wanted her close, but now he wanted her back at the bar, with Dom and Cole.

Women didn't belong on a battlefield. Baird had known it before, but having Chelsea along brought the issue into sharp, crystal-clear focus. His mind kept playing out scenarios of how best to protect her if their motley crew came under fire. Would he grab her and throw her behind him? Let her fight? Hold her while she died? Die in her arms? How would he live with himself if something happened to her? Why did her ass look so good in pants belted firmly on her hips so they wouldn't fall off?

He couldn't stop thinking about her—losing her, bending her over a table—and that sort of shit simply didn't fly in a situation like this. It made him crazy. Well, in his case, crazy was a relative term. It made him _crazier, _in any case.

"I don't like you out here," he blurted.

Chelsea shot him a confused glance over her shoulder. The sort of glance that said: 'Really? You want to talk about this right now?' "Why? You've served with plenty of women before."

"Yeah," he said, finding his mouth uncomfortably dry all of a sudden. "But I made a point to never get involved with any of them."

"Look sharp, Ferria," Marcus snapped, irritated. "Baird, stow the undying love declarations for five minutes, all right? You're giving me a headache."

"You're telling me having Anya under fire with you isn't a distraction?"

"You're a walking distraction," Fenix countered, but it was an automated response, the sort of thing he'd thrown out a million times before. "Do your job, Baird. And for God's sake, let her do hers and maybe we'll all make it back in one piece."

Weapons at the ready, they'd fallen into a diamond formation, with Solice on point, Marcus and Chelsea walking next to each other and keeping an eye on their group's peripheral, and Baird trailing behind, keeping an eye out for a rear assault as ordered. And, although he tried to refrain, he also occasionally checked on his girl's nice, perky six. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how dire the situation got, he remained a hot blooded male—unable to shut off the flood of pleasant memories so fresh in his mind he could perfectly recall every detail. This was the definition of biological insanity and life and death situations brought out the most primal urges.

Then again, they could probably be sitting around doing needle point right now and he still wouldn't be able to think of anything more productive than grabbing two handfuls of that glorious ass and nailing her to the nearest wall, just like he had thirty minutes ago. Everything he'd ever experienced with women before this paled in comparison and the lack of control over his mind and body was closely infringing on embarrassing. He wasn't some awkward kid with his first crush here.

The whole town had turned into a Godforsaken mess. People were running everywhere. There weren't many injured or casualties, but there were plenty of gawkers and plenty of people running around in a panic, screaming for water to put out the flames engulfing their personal property. All the bystanders and regular folks flailing about made it difficult to pick out any would-be kidnappers.

"Better watch ourselves," Solice observed, the flames reflecting in the kid's dark eyes. "They pretty damn organized. Got in and out of here real quick."

"Damn it, Dom," Marcus grumbled to himself.

"Yeah, yeah, we know—you miss him. He's your 'everything' and you're stuck with us instead," Baird rattled on, his eyes playing tricks on him. Their patchwork squad double-timed it down the street, cutting the shortest path possible downhill to the water, taking shortcuts between buildings to cross street after street. He kept seeing outlines of people in the flickering shadows around the street; snipers on the rooftops, ambushes ready to spring out of every alleyway. He'd spent too much time on base, apparently. Patrolling didn't exactly snap back like riding a bike. It took training of the eyes and getting used to feeling completely keyed up all the freaking time.

That's what PTSD was, after all. Just a broken adrenal gland that didn't know when to quit. Great for going out on patrol, crap for the rest of your life.

"Dom would know where to find Daniel Carmine," Marcus pointed out. "They were both Commandos."

"If Clay's conscious and struggling, Dan will beat them down to the waterfront," Chelsea said. "He'll assess if he can make a successful intercept on land, and if he can't or if they manage to get Clay aboard before Dan gets there, he'll find a way to stow aboard ship or prevent it from leaving the harbor. Going off alone isn't like him. If he'd taken someone with him, we could've grabbed an APC for cover fire."

"Why didn't I think of that?" Baird asked rhetorically, and he really wanted to know: Why didn't he think of that? Why didn't any of them? How far were they off their game?

"The streets are so winding and narrow it would be hard to maneuver a full sized APC, and depending on the height of the deck, it could be very difficult to get a firing solution with a mounted gun. They're going to have the high ground," Marcus told her, prodding her theory like a thesis panel.

"Yeah, that's true," Chelsea admitted.

"And the ship is going to be well guarded."

"That's not going to stop him," Chelsea said grimly, blue eyes flicking between straight ahead and their squad's flank. Even officers had to do some formation training in boot, but she looked like she had to think about it. It didn't come naturally like it would for regular infantry. "Dan may not be Baird, but he's smart. He'll find a way. Clay's all he has left. They look after each other."

Baird spared Daniel a pitying scoff. "I feel sorry for any poor bastard who can honestly say Clay Carmine is the best thing in his life."

"Just to be clear, is that because the kolohe had eyes on your lady?" Solice asked.

"Kid, if you had any idea how unpopular I was in high school, you'd understand why I'm so insecure."

"That's two good things I can say about you, Baird," Marcus said. "If she'd picked Carmine tonight, you'd be hell to live with but at least I wouldn't be fumbling around in the dark trying to rescue you."

Baird grunted a laugh. "I doubt I could top you and Santiago for broody on my worst day. So, enlighten me. What's the other good thing you can say about me?"

"You know when to keep your distance from what doesn't belong to you," Marcus rumbled dangerously, and Baird noticed Solice didn't even flinch. He just went on patrolling, keeping an eye out as they passed through the streets.

"Uh, in case you didn't catch it, he's talking to you, buddy," Baird said.

Solice puffed up a little at the accusation, his Islander pride carrying him. "What you talkin' about, brah? Just met this guy today."

"The officer you were chatting up at the bar—she's his old flame. I know, I know, how were you supposed to know? I mean, it's not like she knows she's taken."

"Lieutenant Stroud?" Maleko Solice said, like he didn't believe it. "She wanted to know if I could teach her to make traditional makau."

"Whoa, whoa!" Baird halted him right there, all bluster even though he kept a wary eye on their surroundings. He'd always been able to do that—bullshit while he worked. His mouth just ran without taking much processing space. "Buddy, I don't want to know what position that is. But for your sake, I hope it's handicap accessible."

"Makau is the Islander word for fish hook," Solice said dully, like they weren't picking up what he was laying down and it irked him.

"Did I not just say I don't want to know?" Baird asked, checking over each shoulder every so many steps. He also kept a tab on Marcus, amused to see the older man turning a particular shade of red Baird didn't think he'd ever seen on Fenix before.

Marcus gave Solice a little shove in the back. "Say one more Goddamn word, kid, and you'll be lucky if you live to regret it."

To his credit, Solice kept walking. Fenix had height on the kid, but Solice was a big, strapping boy. He'd tossed Baird back off him like a rag doll that morning and he had a Lancer. Marcus wasn't a sergeant anymore and this kid didn't owe him any loyalty—professionally or personally. What was it Cole liked to tell Baird on those occasions when he got particularly drunk and disorderly? He needed to check it before he wrecked?

"Eh, I'm talking about real fish hooks! The kind you catch fish with. You assholes need to get your minds out of the gutter, for one thing. For another thing, I ain't getting brought up on a fraternization charge."

"Not one Goddamn word!" Marcus growled, right before Baird burst out laughing.

He just couldn't take it. A teenage private with raging hormones making more sense than Fenix did at thirty eight and counting? It was too hilarious to let pass by, and he was still pissed about what Fenix had said earlier. And, once again—it would've been safer to stop, but he couldn't help himself. "Don't worry, kid, that's _never_ stopped her before. She's used to being an enlisted man's side action."

Fenix whirled, grabbing Baird by the collar with two huge hands and nearly lifting him. Those ice-colored eyes had gone dead, staring right through Baird with chin tucked and jaw tight, almost unblinking. Marcus had a cold-blooded killer inside him, but Baird had never seen it this close and personal. He suspected few men had outside The Slab.

"You don't know her," Fenix growled, so low and earnest it really was frightening in a way.

"Maybe not," Baird admitted, still playing it cool. "But I noticed she had a good time tonight at _your _buddy's party, and you didn't. First ounce of self-respect I've seen out of the woman. Good for her."

"Knock it off!" Chelsea shouted, grabbing Marcus's bicep. She lacked the strength to pull him back, but his advance ceased. "All of you, shut the fuck up! You're making big damn targets of all of us and acting like you've never worn the uniform! What the hell happened to you guys? We have a man to save, and neither of you may like him very much, but he's my teammate, my friend! Pull your heads out of your asses and let's get on with it!"

At that precise moment, a monster's scream rang out, echoing around the bay and out over the water. Birds, gulls, kicked up into the air, cawing in protest and clearing out.

Baird could never forget that sound. He still had nightmares about it—and even after all these years, it still made his heart skip a painful beat in pure terror. His legs had already felt tired from earlier activities—now, they felt like jelly. Chagrined, he halfway appreciated Fenix's death grip keeping him on his feet.

The entire town went still. Fires raged on, heat and light snapping and crackling, radiating up and out from the remaining flames, but the people all stopped and became very, very quiet. They all listened closely, and Baird knew from deadly experience every single one of them felt like prey animals caught by a predator out in the open. A predator they couldn't hide from, couldn't outrun. Something that would tear into the safe place they lived and kill them.

Chelsea's momentary bravado faded away right along with the blood from her cheeks. Gray as a ghost, she continued to hold onto Marcus's arm, but now it looked more like she hung on for support. The three of them had frozen in place, and even Fenix's eyes had gone wide in horror. His bicep was all gooseflesh where Chelsea's fingertips dug into him.

"W-what was that?" her voice quavered. She sounded very young, and very frightened. Nothing like a little bowel-liquefying fear to bring some perspective to a situation.

Baird met Fenix's wide eyes and knew they were both flashing back to the first time they'd met—trapped in a tomb, almost certain to become their own, with no way out and something deadly hunting them.

Marcus took a deep breath, regaining that famous calm and finally letting Baird go. "We need to get eyes on it," he said, turning to continue down toward the water, where the pirate ship lay at harbor and the sound had originated from.

With his pulse pounding in both ears, Damon grabbed Chelsea's arms and pulled her close, so they stood nose-to-nose. "I want you to go back to the bar. Stay with Cole and Santiago. You've never dealt with anything like this before and tonight isn't the time to start."

Chelsea was still pale, but she shook her head and jerked her arms free. "I can help."

"You mean so you can help save Carmine?" he asked, perhaps a bit more of a snarl than he meant.

Her eyes narrowed and it did occur to him it might be a very long time before he got laid again—and perhaps a very long time before she even talked to him again. Probably should've known it before he opened his mouth, but at the moment he didn't care. Might regret it later, if they came out of this alive.

"Yeah, I want to save Clay," she snapped back. "But mostly, I want to be there to watch your back and after everything I've been through this year I shouldn't have to beg for a chance to prove myself."

"You have nothing to prove!" Baird emphasized. "There's no proving oneself out here with those _things_! You live, or you die. Anya tried really stinking hard to prove herself to an absent audience, and do you see what happened to her? She's lucky to be alive!"

Sounding perfectly acid, she spat, "I know that, but you're all I have, Damon. I'm coming with you, if you like it or not. If we both survive it, I guess we'll find out if you can forgive me."

She turned and went after Marcus, jogging to catch up with him down a curving street on a sharp decline. Just as they came around the bend, rounding an old fish processing building, the harbor came into sight. Locals had run down in force to do battle with the pirates, and many of them were armed, but now they were all running for higher ground. By the time Baird caught up with Chelsea, she was fighting to stay close behind Fenix, allowing his bulk to make a path through the panicked flux of people.

Soon, they pushed forward beyond the rush and found themselves very much on their own.

Baird brought up the rear of their group, and after pushing past one or two stragglers, he came alongside his small band and took in the scene before them.

"What kind of stupid assholes would stick around for this party?" Baird asked, and then looked around like he didn't already know. "Oh, right. Us."

The Berserker wasn't running around free causing mayhem and destruction yet. Currently, the thing was suspended twenty feet off the ground. A sort of harness had been forged for the thing out of two inch thick stainless steel roll bar, forming handles at the thing's ankles and waist. Heavy boat anchor chains were attached to the harness and came together like marionette strings high above, attached to a deck crane which had apparently hoisted the beast out of the hold and begun to lower her onto the wharf.

She screamed her displeasure and thrashed, causing the chains to swing wildly and the crane to creak and groan. She was small by Berserker standards, but she still probably weighed three thousand pounds.

Solice wrinkled his nose, but refrained from actually covering his nose, sticking to his training and keeping both hands on his rifle. "What is that?" he asked, disgusted.

"It's the Berserker," Marcus told him. "According to my father's research, they give off a pheromone capable of drawing a male to his death from miles away underground."

Solice winced. "Brah, you tellin me we almost got wiped out by a bunch of guys willing to die trying to get lucky with that ugly bitch?"

Baird's eyebrows rose with the sentiment. "Really makes you wonder if we deserved to survive, doesn't it?"

Berserkers stank. To Baird's nose the musk reeked of death and even at fifty yards it actually overpowered the smell of old fish guts. He knew from experience that Berserker female scent would stick in his clothes and hair for days, even after thorough washing. He wasn't looking forward to scrubbing his skin until it came off. If memory served, it used to take him an hour or more under cold water.

"I'm going to have to bathe in aftershave," he grumbled to himself, and in spite of the wacky randomness of his thought, he noticed none of his companions gave him any odd looks.

Pirates were forcing the last of their new captives aboard ship, forcing some to walk and dragging others up the gangway at muzzle point. There was no sign of Carmine, but the deck was too high to see over so he might've been up there already.

Chelsea looked a bit forlorn, and still pale. "What now?" she asked, standing at Marcus's elbow.

The crane ceased lowering with the Berserker just ten feet off the ground and at that moment a beam of light flashed on the deck, swiveling out like a large flashlight over the surface of the water and then finding the four of them—blinding them. Baird raised a hand to shield his eyes against the impossibly bright white.

A loudspeaker crackled, coughed static, and then a rough male voice boomed over the docks.

"Marcus Fenix," the voice said. "I have a proposition to offer to you. Turn yourself and your team over to my men at once, or I turn _her _loose."

They were given no more explanation. Not a name, no order to throw down weapons. Nothing.

"Let's get out of the line of fire," Marcus instructed, his voice low to keep those words between them. With a hand held up against the light, Marcus walked offline casually, toward the sheltering side of the fish processing plant. The light followed them until the building blocked it from their view, but no one started shooting at them.

The four of them lined up along the side of the building as though preparing to breach a door, with Fenix on point.

"Who is that?" Baird asked at once when they no longer presented such an inviting sight picture for the riflemen surely watching them from aboard ship.

Fenix shrugged and shook his head. "I have no idea," he said, and it didn't immediately smack of bullshit.

"Well, he sure as hell knows who you are."

"He would...if Richtner sent him."

"Who's Richtner?" Solice asked.

"What?" Baird asked, like he didn't believe it. "Richtner was a _huge _pain in my ass for a very long time, but why the hell would he do this? Since when is he smart enough to do something like this by himself?"

"I don't think he is doing it by himself," Marcus said. "I think we're getting shafted on both ends, by Richtner and by someone you work with; someone who knows what you're up to, Baird. For Richtner, the why is easy: Money for one; and a chance to make me look bad—or just kill me. I've brought a lot of heat down on him lately, and some of it has gotten pretty public."

Baird scrunched up his face and rubbed at one eye. "You know, I realize this is a little bit of the Seeder calling the Brumak ugly, but why the hell can't you manage the bare minimum of a professional relationship with anyone but Dom? Your last supervisor threw you in jail for four years, but did that slow you down? Apparently not!"

Marcus shrugged. "I get along with Cole," he said mildly.

"Of course you get along with Cole. Everyone does! Hell, _I _get along with Cole!"

"Eh. You sure you don't know this guy?" Solice asked. "If he came here to do business, why not just shoot us?"

"That's a damn good point," Baird said, pointing at Solice while looking at Marcus. "The man with the mic called you out by name, buddy. Not me. I know you're supposed to be the tactical genius, but are you really sure you know what's going on right now?"

"I'm growing impatient, Fenix," the loudspeaker boomed. With that, the Berserker dropped another couple of feet toward the ground. She howled and thrashed some more, unable to reach the chains attached to her back and legs.

"We really need a plan," Chelsea said, voicing aloud what all four of them already knew. "What kills something like that?"

"Not much," Marcus grunted. "Hammer of dawn at full scale-down. Maybe a tank, but not much else."

"Fire helps," Solice pointed out. "The tribes used to build deep pits to trap the beasts. Then they'd pour oil in the pit and light them on fire."

Baird looked around, but he didn't see anything promising. Some cargo containers. A bunch of ships at port, most larger and less maneuverable than the pirate ship and few with large guns.

"This bay is deep," Baird commented off-handedly. Each slip had sheer concrete walls straight down into the water and judging by the size of the ships some of those hulls had to be at least twenty feet underwater. With additional clearance, it had to be on the order of a thirty foot drop or more, straight down to the bottom. "If we could draw her into the water, I think she'd sink."

"It's salt water, Baird," Marcus reminded, glancing over at him. "Creates more buoyancy. Maybe not enough for _your _ego..."

Baird impatiently waved off the insult, "Yeah, yeah, I'm well aware, smartass, but look at her. She's dense. I'll bet she'd literally sink like a rock."

"Their blood is on your hands, Fenix," the loudspeaker declared, and with those words still hanging in the air the crane operator released the chains, dropping the Berserker onto the wharf with all three chains falling, pooling around and behind her as she rose from the crouch she'd fallen into.

Damon had taken hold of Chelsea's forearm without realizing it, and wondered when he'd done it. She hardly seemed to notice, her eyes wide, staring at the animal scenting them, preparing to hunt them. The knuckles on both of her hands were white around the gnasher she carried.

Baird took a deep, steadying breath. It wouldn't do for her to see him crap his pants this early in the relationship. "To be fair," he said. "If my mother had survived, you might actually choose getting chased around by a Berserker on our honeymoon over having her as your mother-in-law."

Chelsea shook her head absently, "I'll have to take your word for it," she said, and he could feel her shaking. They both were.

* * *

Usually, drinking made him like a bull: hard headed, moody and all but immune to pain. The bartender at The Rusy Nail in Jacinto—Chaz?—used to get nervous when Clay came into the bar. Clay didn't usually start fights, but he sure as hell finished them and sometimes the collateral damage got out of hand. Even before Clay earned his rep stealing girlfriends, he got accused of it often enough. After a while, he'd figured, why not be guilty of the crime inspiring the altercation? His parents were dead, his younger brothers were dead. He had no one left to impress and nothing concrete in his future.

Clay charmed girls in an instant, but he couldn't manage a relationship if it went more than skin deep. Dan always asked him how he expected any decent woman to want him, the way he tom catted around. Truthfully, he didn't want a wife. He didn't want to have kids and name them after Anthony and Ben. If it hadn't been for the war, Clay's two younger brothers would've had families of their own. They would've made far better dads than Clay. Better fathers than soldiers.

Hell, Clay didn't even have his past. His accent was gone. It had faded over the years of his youth, right along with his tan. Like a clean slate: body, mind and soul, he'd gone to war to be re-marked, re-forged.

The only evidence left of who they'd been, of their family legacy, marked Dan, not him. Dan's skin remained weathered and dark and Clay still heard a hint of drawl in his words even after all these years. Clay probably couldn't even post a trot on a horse anymore, but he'd bet Danny could. He knew his brother missed wide open spaces. He could see it in the way Daniel studied each farm they passed along the road, every piece of unclaimed land with the right lay to it—scorched or not. Clay coveted women, but Daniel desired a more earthy mistress.

Groaning, Clay turned onto his stomach, cheek coming to rest on diamond plated steel painted over with a thick, non-slip coating. His hands were cuffed behind his back and his feet were chained to the wall. Based on the subtle rock and sway of the floor, he must be on a ship.

"A net, really?" he asked himself. "Who knew the grubs were just a few _nets_ short of winning the war?"

The tactic had been effective. In the past, Clay had entered into altercations where he didn't exactly win, but he didn't exactly lose either. He had the right balance of size, coordination and speed to make a viable foe for just about anyone or any small group in a man-to-man fight. With a weighted net covering him, and getting hit from all sides by a number of opponents, his limbs got bound up in his own efforts to escape. His own strength had worked against him, tightening his bonds instead of freeing him.

It took a lot to put Clay in a foul mood. Usually if he wasn't having a good time, he simply lowered his standards. Today, the strategy hadn't panned out so well. He'd struck out with the woman he'd wanted to be with and when he'd gone outside to get lucky with a barmaid, he'd gotten a net thrown over him and the hell kicked out of him before he even got a chance to get down to business. On top of all of that, one of his captors had gotten in a lucky shot to the face, and Clay _hated _getting hit in the face.

"Danny is _never _going to let me live this down," he informed himself wearily.

"Who's Danny?" an old man in the cell across the way asked. He had gray whiskers and he was gaunt. Clay noticed he wasn't bound.

"They get you too?" Clay asked.

The old man nodded. "A few months back. Don't trust me walking about while in port yet, so they stow me down here when we're not at sea. There are cells like this in a couple of the cargo bays."

"Where are they taking us?"

The old man gave him a disingenuous smile. "They keep me around to wash the decks. They don't usually take Gears for the crew because they don't reprogram easy. I expect they'll sell you to hard labor if they can't get a ransom. If you get lucky, some big time crop baroness on the other side of the world will buy you to keep her bed warm at night."

Clay mulled that over. "That actually doesn't sound too terrible," he noted, his fingers fumbling to reach into his back pocket—over his right butt cheek. He was actually fairly flexible for a big guy and he felt the brush of metal against his middle fingertip, falling down lower in his pocket as he reached for it.

"They treat us fair, if you're worried. Give three squares and they're generous with the liquor as long as we don't start no trouble."

"I'm going to have a hard time with that last part," Clay admitted, wincing a little at the pull in his shoulders, trying to gain that last inch of reach. Finally, he had it. Squeezed between his middle and index fingers, he secured the key and pulled it from his pocket—only to hear the tinkling sound of it hitting the deck when it slipped away from him. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted it, and then hefted himself up onto his ass and started feeling around on the floor with his fingertips, using his feet to help scoot around on his butt.

"Where did you get that?" the old timer asked, taking a pair of worn old glasses from his shirt pocket and putting them on so he could squint at Clay.

"I'm a bounty hunter," Clay told him. "My boss likes to keep us on call, so I usually have cuffs and a key on me all the time."

He'd also learned the hard way not to let a woman cuff him to a bed during sex, or after he passed out. But he didn't mention those particular anecdotes. Clay had an image to maintain, after all.

"It won't do you any good. They only cuff you so they don't have to deal with you when they open the door. You still won't be able to get out of that cell until we're out at sea."

Clay just shook his head, fingers locating the key on the floor and then fumbling to find the keyhole in the cuff on his left wrist. No mean feat while blurry from a beating and buzzed drunk. "My brother's coming for me," he said. "And I don't say this much about anyone, but my brother and all the guys he's out with tonight—they're the real deal. Bad asses to the last man."

With that said, Clay heard a bellow so loud, it echoed through the ship. He froze, and even through the haze, he knew _exactly _what made that sound.

The old timer looked up, toward the deck above where the sound had originated from. "Well," he said after a minute, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his shirt sleeve. "Do you think your friends like you enough to take on _that?_"

If you aren't having a good time, lower your standards...

Clay redoubled his efforts on the cuffs, and soon felt them relent. "Might be time for plan B," he admitted. He grunted, shaking his head and rubbing life back into his wrists. "Never, _ever _going to let me live this down."

* * *

In theory, it had sounded like a decent plan. With no time for planning, they'd tried to keep it simple. Half their team would distract the Berserker away from the town center while the other half coordinated the effort to neutralize. Divide and conquer. Simple, right?

"Shit!" Solice hissed, holding his arm against his body, his eyes squeezing shut in a wince. Blood streaked his face from a scalp laceration above his left ear. Both of them were breathing hard, crouched in shadows behind a building.

Marcus could feel the muscles in his calves shaking from exhaustion and he could feel beads of sweat dripping down his face and neck. He'd always had an impeccable sense of direction, but right now only the downward slant of the streets told him which direction to the water. During their panicked flight he'd become disoriented. It was unacceptable. A soldier needed to know the position of his enemy and his own men at all times. Lose any of those pieces, lose the battle.

He had Solice's Lancer cradled in his arms. The kid hadn't dropped it, not even when he'd been mauled after Marcus had fallen. Solice had stood his ground when Marcus lost his footing on loose brick pavers in the street, drawing the Berserker away with short bursts of fire and she'd nearly run him down, knocking him aside with one vicious swipe. The kid had saved Marcus's miserable life, and probably earned himself a broken arm for his trouble.

"We should split up, brah," Maleko said. "They gotta be almost ready. We can start leading it back toward the water."

"Not until we get the signal from Baird," Marcus said. "I should lead it back. You should go find Lieutenant Stroud and the rest of your squad and contact Control. The COG is going to want to know what's happening here."

The COG. He'd walked around the past twenty minutes like he still wore the uniform and everyone had humored him. No one questioned his physical or mental fitness. Marcus had always known he had an uncanny outward presence, capable of convincing others he knew what to do even when he made it up as he went. Just like a high-functioning drunk, as Dizzy called it; someone who appeared to hold it together, even when they were too far gone to know how far gone they were.

During these past few years, he'd made it his priority to stay in shape, stay prepared. Running, wind sprints, push-ups, dead-lifts, squats. Anything Cole could throw at him. Anything he could remember from PT, back when they'd done PT regularly. It just wasn't the same. Running was one thing—but running with a Lancer worked an entirely different muscle set. It took a massive amount of conditioning to keep moving like this and then hold a fourteen pound machine gun with mounted fuel tank steady when it counted. For the first time since Dom had busted him out of The Slab, before he got used to the weight again, Marcus didn't know if he could swing it. His arms felt shot already and the Lancer got heavier by the minute.

Mentally, he was a wreck—but that part wasn't new for any of them.

Not fifty feet away, the Berserker roared a challenge to them, sniffing the air for them. The chains rattled behind her, dragging along the pavement. She'd find them again, soon enough.

"You must really have a pair," Maleko panted. "Volunteering to go mano-a-mano with her."

"Oh, I don't know," Marcus said, offhandedly. "So far I'm batting one hundred on Berserkers. Hell of a lot better than I'm doing with real women."

"Want some advice?" Solice asked, petulant.

"Not really, but that never seems to stop anyone from giving it."

"If you don't want some other buck taking the seat next to her, then sit in the damn seat. Can't blame a man for sitting down in an empty chair, ya?"

The kid made a damn good point. So had Chelsea Ferria—Chelsea _Baird _now—when she'd said he needed to get his head in the game. Put the uniform on and wear it. He'd let it wear him down and get under his skin tonight, but as usual, The Anya Issue took a back burner to living, or dying, in the moment.

"Let's stay on target here, all right?" Marcus said, shedding all other thoughts. "Report back to your Sergeant and try to keep order if the town decides to evac. Get Naval support in here if you can. The pirates seem content to watch the show for now. Perfect time to blow them out of the water if we can manage it."

Depending on the day, Dom might've called him out for a response like that—said something about dodging the issue _again._ Even if Dom didn't say anything, Marcus could always tell what the other man thought by the stubborn set of his jaw and the reproof and disappointment in his dark eyes. Carlos used to say Dom could lay a guilt-trip on a saint with one stray glance.

Solice nodded. "All right. And here, take this." He pulled something on a thong around his neck over his head and held it out with his good arm.

"What is it?" Marcus asked, feeling the weight drop into his open palm. It felt like a small wooden tube, but it must've been hollow—it felt lighter than it looked like it should be.

"Tea," Solice said. "You're going to need it."

"Tea? As in a cup of tea?"

"Warrior tea. Try it. It'll put hair on your chest," Maleko grinned, unrepentant, sliding off into the darkness with one arm bracing his broken limb.

"Hair on my chest. Yeah, because that's what I'm short on right now." Using his thumb, Marcus flipped back the cap on the thumb-sized capsule, taking a wiff of the contents. It smelled all right. A little flowery with an underlying scent of spices. "Can't be worse than Dizzy's moonshine," he reassured himself, tipping back his head and letting the dry contents fall onto his tongue.

It burned. Even worse than Dizzy's moonshine. Worse than anything he'd ever tasted, including the incredibly hot peppers Mrs. Santiago used to grow in her garden and Carlos used to dare him to eat when they were kids. The COG used to use tear gas on soldiers in training to prepare them for experiencing toxic gases in the field. That experience almost compared to this.

Marcus choked and coughed, and only about half of the stuff went down his throat and the other half he spat out onto the ground.

"Holy fuck," he managed after a moment, his eyes watering to the point of tears. Why the hell would another soldier give him something like that? Why the hell did he take it?

Wiping at his eyes, Marcus could hear the Berserker drawing closer, attracted by the noise. Each time she set a foot down he felt it through his boots the same time he heard it. Moving away from the wall and rising from his crouch, Marcus made his way down the alley, seeking another hiding place. He placed one finger to his ear, holding it close in so he could hear.

"Baird? What's taking so long?" He started to cough again, muffling the sound in the crook of his arm.

"Engine trouble. But if I know what I'm doing—and I do—I should have it running right about..." The sound of an engine sputtering and trying to turn over came over the comm. and then the crank turned and the engine hummed, roaring as Baird put the gas to it to keep it from stalling in idle. "Right about now. Bring her down any time. Oh, and don't forget the flowers. Girls like those, or so I've been told."

Marcus growled in a little in response after the line clicked dead, reaching out with his free hand to guide himself along the brick wall. "Such a clever boy," he mimicked Mataki's prim sarcasm. "Such a pain in my ass."

Every once in a great while, Baird heckled Dom enough to earn a whupping; tonight, for the first time in a long time, Marcus had come within inches of wrestling Baird to the ground and pounding his face in. It wasn't always his fault, but Baird had a habit of peeling people open and hitting the sore spots with uncanny precision. Most of the time the guy didn't even realize he'd done it, because in his mind he was just guessing, jumping to a conclusion from the barest evidence.

Marcus made a couple turns, guiding his path back toward the water. He had no delusions of stealth now. He whistled some long-forgotten tune off key and banged on every trash can, laying down breadcrumbs for her to follow.

So far, this had been the tamest Berserker he'd ever met. At first she'd rip-roared after them just like any other he'd run into, but for the past several minutes she'd changed tactics; scenting him, listening, moving slowly. Did she get worn down from the initial energy burst, or was she hunting him? He could still hear her paralleling his path down toward the water, always with at least one building between them.

His eyes had stopped watering, and he actually felt strangely refreshed, like he'd found his second wind. Maybe there was something to that 'Islander Tea,' even if it did burn like hell going down.

The snuffling and scraping sounds of a very large creature suddenly ceased, and Marcus took a few more steps before he noticed. He started walking a little faster, feeling the hair on the back of his neck and arms standing straight up. Why had it stopped?

A child's voice ripped through the air in a scream and Marcus took off in a sprint, this time toward the monster. The Berserker's cry rang through the air and the child screamed again, and this time Marcus could make out it was a young girl.

Tearing around a corner, he found the Berserker beneath a fire escape, having treed two kids up above, and separated a third from their number on the ground. The girl nearly collided with Marcus as he came around the corner, and she didn't even seem to see him. Panic had taken her so completely, she bounced off the collision, half stumbled, and then ran on, moving fast uphill.

The Berserker lowered into a ready crouch, sleek with muscle and ready to charge. Her snarl lowered into a rumbling growl and Marcus knew what came next. She was going to take off after her escaping prey, running through anything in her path, including him.

Raising the Lancer stock to his shoulder, Marcus prepared to take aim. If he didn't stand his ground now, he might not catch up with her in time to save that kid from an ugly death.

Just as those heavy quads flexed, lowering just a bit more in preparation to charge, a bottle with a lit fuse whistled over Marcus's head and broke on her, lighting her on fire.

Shrinking back, the Berserker roared in fury and pain, recoiling back and then taking off, this time toward the water, chains trailing behind her like a burning train after they dragged through the flames.

"Get moving!" Daniel Carmine shouted, running past Marcus, shirtless. He had a sling over his shoulders, filled with what looked like liquor jars with cloth wicks. Daniel nimbly hopped over the remaining alcohol flames on the street in pursuit. "We're going to have to herd her."

Marcus hustled to keep up, coming up alongside his bare-chested compatriot. "Push her toward the water. We have a plan."

"I hope it's a good one," Daniel called back, following the Berserker down one street, and then taking an alley when she chose to run through a building, her thick hide still smoking.

With his work boots pounding the pavement, and his heart thundering in his ears, Marcus felt his blood catch fire. He felt like he could run strong like this forever, chase this devil until he caught it and killed it. Each breath of fresh, cold air pulled into his lungs felt incredible. The weight of the Lancer didn't even register anymore.

In spite of his athleticism, he'd never done well at baseball as a child, or a teenager. His brain wouldn't disengage and allow him to react. When the ball came so fast he couldn't think about it, he always made the play. His mind had always been an asset and a weakness. The ability to feel and live in the moment had always escaped him. Running in the night, Marcus felt heat in his blood and all of his restraint stripping away. Synapses fired faster and faster and he caught slivers of memories all but forgotten. Of firefights, of fistfights, of prison, of Anya's beautiful body arched sensually beneath him.

Daniel whooped and hollered, running up alongside the Berserker when she started to drift from the desired course, being careful to stay clear of the chains still streaming out behind her. He lit another firebomb from his make-shift sling. "Make a lot of noise. It'll confuse her!"

Fire lit the ground, the Berserker screamed and began to turn, and Marcus shouted, dressing down the Berserker like a private. "Damn it! Turn, you ugly bitch!"

"Surrender yourself now, Fenix. This is a fight you can't win," the loudspeaker informed them all.

Feeling his temper flaring hot, Marcus roared, "The hell I can't!" For the first time since his fool-hearty youth, he felt unvanquished.

Working in tandem, the two of them pushed the Berserker down toward the docks and almost too soon Marcus saw the trap they'd set. A huge fish net hanging vertically like a curtain down by the water, strung between a pair of cranes in place to offload fish off vessels. When Marcus shouted to Daniel and pointed to the net, Daniel immediately nodded back his understanding. The Berserker was pushing to the left of where they needed her to go and upon coming to the base of the hill she was running like a freight train out of control in the wrong direction, in parallel to the sea instead of toward it.

"Throw one ahead of her!" Marcus yelled to Daniel, but the former commando was way ahead of him. Daniel ran in that awkward way people do when trying to run and hold something still. At a jerky gait, his focus rested squarely on lighting a cloth wick, possibly made from his own shirt. Taking careful aim, Daniel arched the cocktail beautifully over the Berserker's head.

Fire spread before all of them, and the Berserker caught a full blast of it. She pulled up to a dead stop, screaming in pain, her hide already blistered and raw from the burns she'd endured. Daniel threw a second bottle, this one unlit, to her left. The flame caught on it and pushed her a few steps right, but this time she didn't take off running.

"Take this," Marcus said, handing over Maleko Solice's Lancer to Daniel for safe keeping.

"What are you doing?" Dan asked. He only had a couple bottles of booze left, the necks held in one hand like he was on his way to a party, except for the obvious cloth wicks and the Lancer cradled in his other arm.

"Leading her on," Marcus responded simply, taking off toward the net and turning back at the half-way point. Removing the pistol at his hip from its holster, he took careful aim, and fired.

The shot hit the Berserker in the shoulder, and the next hit her in the ribs. She flinched away, roaring in rage and flinging her arms up, unhurt.

"Come on!" Marcus yelled, falling back step after step. "Come and get me!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Baird's voice asked in his ear, just a bit frantic.

Every soldier risked life and limb in combat. Long ago, Marcus had stopped counting the number of lucky breaks he owed thanks for saving his life. He didn't expect immortality, but he'd never shrunk away from danger. He'd always faced it, bull-rushed it.

"Marcus, no!" he heard Anya scream over the comm, after the Berserker began her charge.

The Berserker came on like a freight train, and he timed it perfectly, moving aside just in time for her to run straight into the net. The calculation would've been perfect, except for the chains still attached to her backside, streaming out behind her.

She hit the net with so much force, it swung out and began to twist around her, and the chains swung around and caught Marcus on a perfect diagonal across the torso while he ran, hitting him hard enough to send him skittering off the dock and into an empty slip, plunging into cold salt water.

Chelsea and Baird had control of the cranes, and the side of the net down on the ground began to rise, trying to create a hammock to hold the Berserker like a big fish.

When Marcus surfaced, he spat out the foul tasting water and wiped at his burning eyes just in time to see the lines twist with the seething, swinging mass high above his head.

"Shit," he growled, pulling hard away from the dock, out from under the coming calamity, but it was too late. The lines twisted and the net stopped rising on the low end. When the net swung out, the Berserker rolled out of the bottom of the net and fell.

He'd almost cleared her. The splash was immense, but she didn't fall on him. The wave caught him, lifting him up just as a huge hand closed on his boot and dragged him down, into the depths. He didn't even have time to close his eyes before getting yanked beneath the surface, and up above he could still see the searching light from the Pirate ship marking the spot where he'd gone under.

* * *

Clay came to the top of a set of lattice stairs and stepped through a portal onto the deck of the ship, the wooden handle of a fire axe gripped in his right hand near the heavy blade. Blood spray covered his face and front, as well as the handle and axe head.

Daniel could've freed himself and snuck off this boat in half the time without attracting any attention and without leaving a trace. On the other hand, Clay hadn't ever done subtle well. Clay had met up with a few old friends during his escape; a couple of the guys who'd given him a beating earlier in the evening when he'd been under a net and couldn't defend himself.

To say the least, he'd repaid the favor with interest. The axe had come in handy in that regard. He'd found it behind some glass labeled, 'Break in case of emergency,' which had seemed appropriate.

Looking around the deck, Clay saw one person—a woman behind a spotlight, shining it over the side of the deck.

Clay walked up behind her, axe slung casually over his right shoulder. "Skeleton crew tonight, huh?" he said.

The woman jumped, startled—even more so when she turned and saw him. Her eyes went wide at the streaks and abundant splattering of blood. Clay grinned at her through the mess. She wasn't a bad looking girl. Tall—nearly six feet in boots—and with a thin but almost pretty face. She had dark hair and blue eyes and no bust to speak of. Clay guessed she was in her early thirties.

"Menar du att döda mig?" she asked, clearly stating a question and clearly upset. She held up her hands in a defensive posture, probably asking him not to hurt her.

Clay could see she wasn't armed. Her clothes were rags. He didn't have to wonder too hard what the crew probably kept her around for. She spoke a foreign language so they didn't have to worry about her trying to make a break for it in port. How long would she last in a land where she couldn't understand anyone?

"You with these guys?" he asked her. "Because I really take it personally when I get taken prisoner against my will. Especially when I've got a D-cup in each hand and she's wearing a sexy little black dress with no panties, pressing her ass into my crotch, ready to go."

"Ta vad du vill. Jag bryr mig inte!" she said, speaking quickly as if to bargain with him while still holding her hands up in front of her.

"What are you up to, anyway?" Clay asked, stepping around her to look over the side. Down on the dock, he saw Daniel, fire, and one pissed-off Berserker slung high in a fishing net.

"Komma bort från mig!" she said, and she gave him a sharp shove. She must've been stronger than she looked, or else Clay was still tipsy, because she managed to push him through the space in the rail cut out for the light to maneuver.

In the space of an instant, he reached out and grabbed the only thing he could reach—her. Her eyes went wide when his hand closed on the ragged collar of her shirt and together, they fell off the back of the ship.

When they surfaced, Clay still had the axe, and he had the woman pulled into his chest, her back to him. She sputtered and gasped, floundering like she'd never been in the water before. She probably never had.

"Calm down!" Clay boomed, and she ceased struggling, seeming to realize he easily held both of them above water. They weren't far from the end of the slip. Just twenty feet or so. Up ahead, he could see Fenix trying to move through water like he life depended on it. Clay started swimming for the edge of the slip just as the Berserker rolled free of the net and fell into the water.

A wave washed over the pair of them, leading to more panicked struggles by the woman in his arms, and although the two of them easily came back to the surface after the wave and splash, Clay noted Fenix didn't.

With a swift push, he sent the woman scooting through the water toward the dock. By the time she slowed down, she'd gained enough distance to flounder a little and then reach a hand-hold.

Stroking hand-over-hand, careful not to cut himself with the axe, Clay covered twenty or thirty feet in the direction of where he'd last seen Marcus, and then dove down. He forced his eyes open and then wished he hadn't. The salt burned like hell and in the darkness he couldn't see anything.

Reaching out with his left hand, he groped downward, pushing further down until his lungs couldn't take it anymore and he had to flip upright and kick hard for the surface.

When he came up, Clay shook his head sharply to throw water and wet hair clear from his face. Baird had jumped in the water and was swimming toward him, Chelsea remained on the dock, pointing to his right and shouting.

"Clay! He went down over there! Where the light's on the water!"

Clay swam over a few strokes, to exactly where the spotlight had come to rest during his struggle with the woman on the ship, took a deep breath and dove. He pushed hard, left hand flailing in front of him during the decent. After about ten or twelve feet, his head felt like it might crack open from the incredible pressure, but he kept pushing.

How long had Fenix been under? Twenty seconds? Thirty? If he hadn't been so stupid, none of them would be here now.

Finally, when he'd all but given up hope, his hand found a meaty shoulder just off to the right of where he'd swum down. Clay grabbed a handful of clothing and gave a hard jerk, but something else below resisted their return to the surface.

Letting the axe handle slip through his hand to the end, Clay swung downward with all his might, his reach allowing him to hit the monster in the depths, below the man he wished to save. He made solid contact, and swung again, the water resisting some of the strength he wanted to put into the swing but not all of it. On the third try, the axe stuck and there was a flurry of motion and bubbles, and suddenly the two were free, floating toward the surface.

Dropping the axe, Clay gripped Marcus with both hands and rushed them upward, his lungs burning for air.

Baird reached them at the instant they hit the surface, and Clay had never seen Damon Baird look so grim. With Marcus on his back, face out of the water, the two of them side-stroked like hell toward Chelsea on the dock. She waved them on frantically.

"Move it! Get him up here! We need to start CPR right now!"

It would've taken more time to pull him out if Clay hadn't been there. Few men could endure the physical riggers of the past day and still have the strength to throw Marcus Fenix three feet out of the water. Clay was one such gifted individual. And, Baird helped. The two of them threw their felled compatriot up on the dock with one heave, and Chelsea secured a grip under his arms, pulling upward while the two of them pushed his legs from the water.

Marcus's chin rested on his chest until Chelsea pulled his boots clear of the dock edge and laid him down on his back, and then his head rolled freely off to the side. The man was utter dead weight and his lips had started turning blue. Clay wondered if they had any chance of bringing him back to the living.

Kneeling beside Fenix, Chelsea began chest compressions immediately.

Clay collapsed on his side on the dock, but after Baird hauled himself out of the water, he joined his girlfriend.

"Do you know the protocol for compressions?" Chelsea asked, her arms getting a workout trying to pump Fenix's heavy chest.

"Yeah, I got the quick and dirty lecture in basic. Gotta love that indelible memory," Baird took over for her on compressions, hardly missing a beat and freeing up Chelsea to tilt Fenix's head back and clear his airway, checking for a pulse.

The two of them worked really well together, Clay realized with a twinge of self-pity. His buddy, Chuck, was gone. Not dead, not gone away—Chuck never existed in the first place. Gone also was Charlie, the girl with the tantalizing secret. He'd settled into a boring, monotonous pattern and Charlie had brought some intrigue and mystery into his life. This young woman was neither of those people. Clay hardly knew her but from all the evidence she'd landed with the right guy, and Clay wasn't it.

Daniel had always tried to tell him not to get caught off-guard. He'd gotten bound up in feeling sorry for himself all evening, gone off alone, and it had brought them all to this—with one of their teammates dying in the fallout.

Chelsea tilted Marcus's head back and pinched his nose shut to start rescue breathing, causing the large man's chest to rise, and then fall again when Baird continued compressions.

"Come on, Marcus," Chelsea encouraged, while Baird steadily counted out each compression. "You know Dom will kill me if anything happens to you."

"He'll skin us both," Baird muttered when he ceased counting and Chelsea performed her two breaths.

"Um, guys," Clay said, propping up on his elbow. "Really hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think this might be the end of the line."

"What are you talking about?" Bair d asked, swinging his head around without missing a beat, and taking in the approaching semi-circle of goons with firearms of all gauges and calibers. There were ten of them closing in, and no sign of Daniel. Clay scanned the buildings beyond, finding no sign of his brother, but he could feel Dan out there, watching, waiting.

So much for a skeleton crew on the ship. The real reason Clay's escape had gone so smoothly was because of the ambush awaiting them all on shore.

The noose steadily tightened, but Chelsea and Baird continued to desperately fight for their friend's life.

"If we get out of this, I'm not getting out of bed for a week," Baird promised. "Where the hell are the MPs now? Sure, they can drag a girl to jail, but where are they when you need them? Two...three...four... Goddamn it, Fenix, wake up!"

Chelsea pulled her shotgun closer, laying it across her lap. Her blue eyes had a fire to them Clay recognized as Charlie, through and through. "You won't take me alive if you don't let me save him."

"Coincidentally, we have a friend who also wants him alive," one of the men said. He had a thick accent and he was not the man they'd all heard earlier on the loudspeaker. "Him and Damon Baird. The rest of you are free to go if those two surrender themselves to us."

_Bullshit, _Clay thought. He'd bet his right nut these clowns would kill him and Chelsea the moment Fenix and Baird surrendered themselves, or take them as prisoners.

Clay gathered himself together, bringing one knee up under himself and then rising to his feet.

"I'm Damon Baird," he said.

The man squinted at him. "You are the one we took earlier. The Gear from the alleyway with the girl. You were the bait to draw in the others. How did you escape?"

Bait. Check. He'd performed well in that role, hadn't he?

Clay put on his most predatory grin. The same grin he'd give to a man's face after stealing his date right out from under him. "I hope you liked your compatriots, because you're going to be cleaning them off the walls for a while."

That gave a few of them pause. One of the older men, a grizzled old black sailor with graying stubble, looked especially nervous. Clay had killed a younger black man during his escape, and he wondered if this happened to be the young man's father.

In the next few minutes, Marcus Fenix would either live or die. These men surrounding them all would either take them prisoner, or kill them, or die trying. Clay had already decided he should die first, before Chelsea, and yes—even before Baird. He didn't deserve any less for dragging all of these people into this terrible mess.

But for the moment, all enemy eyes were straight ahead on him, and Clay was doing what he did best—what he did better than anyone: Bullshitting until the cows came home...or the Calvary showed up, whichever came first.


End file.
